


El Camino a Casa

by Bookwormgal



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arsenic Poisoning Symptoms, Bittersweet Ending, Blackmail, Canonical Character Death, Coma, Dehydration, Denial, Ernesto Ruins Everything, F/M, Family, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Héctor Doesn't Deserve This, Kissing, Loss, Mexico, Mild Blood, Nausea, Non-Canon Timing, Pain, Poisoning, Pre-Canon, Seizures, Sick Character, Skeletons, Slow and painful death, Spoilers, Suffering, Vomiting, Worry, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-05-07 11:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: What if Héctor made it on that train? What if he didn't collapse in the street on the way home? He reached the station, climbed on board, and began the trip back to see his family after so long apart....But not because Ernesto didn't share a final toast with him. Not because his best friend had a change of heart at the last moment about poisoning him. Héctor reached the train because Ernesto didn't use enough to kill himimmediately.





	1. Move Heaven and Earth

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea just randomly popped into my evil, evil, evil brain the other day. And the scenario played in my head all that day. Vividly. And I am still not certain if this counts as a better outcome than what happened with the film or a worse one. You'll have to be the judge of that. But it is bittersweet.
> 
> Here's a warning though. Poison doesn't do nice things to the human body. And this story will be a bit more graphic about those effects than what happened in the Disney film. Unlike in the original versions of events, unconsciousness won't strike quite as soon… If you are squeamish, this may not be the best story for you. You may be happier with one of my other "Coco" stories instead.

The train car rattled slightly over the tracks, joining the percussion of the steam engine pulling him closer and closer to Santa Cecilia and home. It wasn't the first-class compartment, but the bench felt relatively comfortable. He should have theoretically been able to sleep during the ride. He would be home by morning and he didn't want to be drowsy when he finally saw Imelda and Coco after months away. Sleeping would be the best use of his time. But unlike the other train rides where the sounds worked like a lullaby, the motion only seemed to unsettle Héctor's stomach slightly.

Maybe it was just guilt that left him feeling faintly nauseous. He knew from the start that his decision to leave would upset Ernesto. Héctor knew that his friend wanted this for their entire lives, the two of them playing music for so many people and making them happy. But plans change. And so do priorities. They weren't children anymore. The ideas of children rarely match the realities of adulthood.

And it wasn't just the two of them now. They weren't alone, no one else except each other. Héctor had a wife and daughter that depended on him and he needed to put them first. He needed to be there for them. He missed them so much.

Imelda didn't even want him to leave in the first place, the two of them arguing over it. He told her how Ernesto promised that the income from the tour would let Héctor properly provide for his family. But Imelda stated that they would find a way to manage without it and that the Ernesto's planned tour was too far and too long to be away from them. And that was _before_ his friend kept extending it. He could only imagine her reaction when his later letters reached her, explaining that he would be gone even longer than originally planned.

In the end, she was right. Even if the money from their performances would help his family, he was finding the cost to be too great. He couldn't stay away from his family any longer and he certainly couldn't write any new songs when his inspiration was back home. Héctor knew that he had to leave.

Ernesto's reactions to the news was extremely mixed. It wasn't the first time that Héctor brought up the possibility of going home before the tour was over. He'd been missing Imelda and Coco almost from the start and it had only grown worse as the months kept multiplying. And yet every time that he tried to discuss it with his friend, Ernesto would either change the subject or plead and coax him into staying "just one more performance." But this was the first time that Héctor refused to be dissuaded, even buying a ticket ahead of time in secret so that he would have a solid and tangible reason to no longer delay his return. And once it was clear that Héctor would be leaving no matter what Ernesto said or did, his friend's behavior became a bit more difficult to predict.

At first, Héctor saw the expected frustration and desperation, his friend imploring him to stay and acting as if everything would fall apart in his absence. As if Ernesto didn't have the talent, charisma, and stage presence to succeed on his own. Which was crazy since Héctor knew it was well within his capability. But then Ernesto calmed and grew more reasonable, reassuring his friend that he understood his reasons and offered to send Héctor off with a drink. The fact that he might be able to depart with his friendship intact was more than he could have hoped.

But that wasn't the end of it. Ernesto offered to walk him to the train station and everything seemed fine then. When they reached their destination, however, his friend started dragging his feet and trying to slow him down. Ernesto began asking if he felt all right, saying that Héctor didn't look so good, suggesting that perhaps he should wait until morning, and simply doing his best to delay Héctor with increasing force in his voice. Right before he stepped on the train, Ernesto even grabbed his arm and practically snapped that Héctor shouldn't leave yet. If it wasn't for the other people at the station, it might have degenerated into another full-blown argument.

He knew this was rough for Ernesto now, but he would understand someday. Whenever he found a woman to share his life with and started a family, Ernesto would feel the exact same way. No matter what dreams that they might have discussed growing up, family changed everything. Ernesto would hopefully forgive him in time. As long as their friendship remained intact, they could fix this.

Héctor shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position as his stomach churned and almost ached. Whenever Ernesto finished the tour and came back to Santa Cecilia, they would talk and work everything out. This wasn't permanent. Maybe he could write some new songs for Ernesto to perform as an apology for leaving early. If he came up with something inspired and good enough, Ernesto would probably forget the argument completely and would simply be happy to have a new song to perform for the crowds.

He shifted again, grimacing as he moved and tried to ease the increasing discomfort. The nausea didn't seem to be getting any better. Which was strange because the jostling of the moving train shouldn't be bothering him _this_ much and he felt perfectly fine when he got onboard. He felt fine for a while after they started, but now he didn't feel so great. And his stomach was starting to shift from general discomfort towards pain. It took Héctor a moment to realize that his hand was unconsciously digging into the fabric of his charro suit in response to the worsening sensation.

"Hey, you all right there?" asked a man from the neighboring bench.

There weren't a large number of passengers onboard the train, traveling at the late hour. Mostly those going long distances. But there were a few other people in the compartment. Including a tired man who was blinking blearily at Héctor.

With an expression of growing concern as he peered at him, the man said, "You're not looking so good, _amigo_."

"I'm fine," he said, giving his current traveling companion a reassuring smile. "I think I just ate something that didn't agree with me."

As he spoke, Héctor realized that made far more sense than it just being a guilty conscience about leaving his friend suddenly. True, that guilt had been bothering him all afternoon and evening. He barely ate much of the _chorizo_ from dinner, his thoughts too turbulent. At least their performance didn't suffer the same way, the idea of going home immediately afterwards exceeding his guilt and leaving his music filled with more life than he'd managed in almost a month.

But apparently that small amount of _chorizo_ that he managed to eat wasn't a wise idea. Hours later and it was clearly rebelling against him. At least he didn't eat more of it. Otherwise he would probably feel even worse.

A sharp spike of pain sprang up from gut into his throat, making him wince before the sensation settled back in his stomach. Maybe Ernesto wasn't worrying over nothing after all. Maybe he saw a sign of this approaching illness. Maybe he _was_ trying to make Héctor stay out of concern for his well-being. Maybe that's why he seemed so agitated at the end, trying to force him to remain for his own good.

Noticing his wince of pain, the man asked, "Are you certain?"

" _Sí_. I guess that _chorizo_ wasn't the best meal in Mexico City," Héctor said, trying to lighten the mood. "But I'm fine. Once I'm home in Santa Cecilia, everything will be fine."

The thought of being home with his family again made Héctor feel a little better. Imelda would probably yell at him for being gone so long, but the bite in her words would be tempered by her relief to see him again. And she would eventually forgive him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing Héctor after months apart. Her warmth and love would be worth any anger she turned against him over his absence with only those letters to comfort her. Coco would fling herself at her papá, giggling and talking excitedly about everything that he'd missed. He would sing cheerful and loving lyrics to both of them, staring at their smiles and reacquainting himself with their every detail.

Once he was home and resting in his own bed, he would feel better. He would shake off this illness and then he would make up for all the time that he'd missed out on. He would be with his girls again soon.

Another stab of pain shot through his abdomen, a quiet hiss slipping between his teeth. Nausea washed over him, stronger than ever. The sensation sent a shiver across his body. Héctor leaned forward in his seat, eyes pressed closed.

" _Amigo_ ," called the stranger. Héctor pried his eyes open to meet his concerned expression. "Are you sure that you don't need something?"

Trying to ignore the way his stomach churned, Héctor said, "Maybe… see if there's a bucket or something onboard? I…" He swallowed, fighting the nausea that lurched with the same rhythm as the rattling train. "I don't want to make a mess if this gets worse."

* * *

Glass scattered across the hotel room as the thrown tequila bottle shattered against the opposite wall. A shot glass swiftly followed as he snarled wordlessly in fury. He wasn't even certain who he was angry at: himself or his friend. No, it was the younger man who was to blame. Not himself. The violent temper tantrum lasted only a few moments before he reined it in. The destruction remained relatively contained, but his thoughts and emotions continued to rage.

Everything was ruined. Ernesto had seen it coming, like a train heading towards a cliff. Héctor had been slipping away since the tour started. No, it had been happening for longer than that. He'd been losing his friend since that woman caught Héctor's eye and started twisting his thoughts around. But with each passing day, it grew more and more difficult to talk Héctor into continuing the tour. Ernesto knew that it was only a matter of time before they passed the point of no return. Héctor was going to betray him. He was going to turn his back on their dream. Ernesto knew it was coming and hated it.

Part of him hoped that Héctor would see sense. He never wanted things to spiral down to this point. He wanted his friend to listen again. He never wanted to harm the younger man, his closest companion from childhood. But tonight Ernesto watched his dreams and fortune pack up a suitcase and try to abandon him. And to protect his future, Ernesto fell back on the half-planned strategy that he'd conceived in the late hours of the night when doubts and fears whispered in the dark.

To achieve his dream, he would seize the moment and do whatever it took to make it real. He would sacrifice anything for his dream. That was the mark of a true success. He was the one brave enough and strong enough to do what was necessary to achieve his goal.

And if Héctor was that cost, if it meant giving up someone who would betray and abandon his friend in his time of need, then so be it.

But it didn't work. Ernesto ran a hand through his hair, teeth clenched in frustration. His plan didn't work.

Arsenic in the tequila should have been enough to stop Héctor. Those cheap mystery murder novels made it seem so simple. Some rat poison in the drink and it would be over. But by the time they reached the station there wasn't any sign of it affecting the younger man. And Héctor boarded the train, carrying his songs away and leaving Ernesto with nothing. It was a complete waste.

He gave Héctor poison. He tried to kill him. He tried to murder his best friend. He knew that it was a necessary crime to reach his goal; the ends justify the means. But he failed and was left with nothing. Ernesto betrayed his best friend and it didn't even end up helping him in the end.

No. Ernesto didn't betray him. Héctor did it first by trying to abandon him. Ernesto was just trying to salvage what Héctor tried to destroy.

Glass crunched underfoot as Ernesto paced back and forth. What was he supposed to do now? Whether or not the poison did anything at this point, Ernesto was stuck with the same problem now. There were scheduled performances and Héctor's songs were growing further and further with each passing moment. He was alone, abandoned, betrayed, and left with nothing. A familiar and treacherous thought whispered in his head.

_I can't do it without his songs._

Ernesto sank down on the edge of the bed. Maybe this was his punishment for trying to kill his best friend. He bought the rat poison over a month ago. That dark and ruthless plan that came to him in the middle of the night should have been ignored. It did him no good in the end and left something uncomfortable nipping at the edges of his thoughts.

He shook his head sharply. No, he wasn't wrong. It didn't work, but Héctor pushed him into this situation. He wouldn't have done anything if the younger man simply listened. And it wasn't like it actually killed him. Héctor left with his songs, going back to that woman and child so that he could squander his talents. And he was dragging Ernesto's future down with him.

But Ernesto refused to let that happen. So the poison didn't work and the songs were gone. This wasn't over. He could figure it out. He wasn't going to let it slip away. He would get what he wanted in the end.

There was a small gap in the scheduled tour in about a month, one that he originally intended to fill with another performance. But Ernesto could use the time to slip back to Santa Cecilia. Whether Héctor ended up being affected by the arsenic later or not, Ernesto could pay a visit. It would give him a second chance to get those songs.

Until then, he could perform other songs. Popular and well-known songs, ones that he learned long ago. They probably wouldn't draw the crowds like the new and original songs that Héctor wrote, but it was only for a month. And he might be able to make up for the older songs with a stellar performance and some theatrics.

A month. He could make it work for a month. And then he would get what he deserved. He sacrificed so much for this chance and he _would_ get what he needed. He sacrificed what was left of his friendship with Héctor, even though the younger man had already thrown it aside when he chose to abandon and betray Ernesto.

He would get those songs. He would get the fame and admiration that he deserved. He'd earned that much. Nothing would stop him.

* * *

Bent nearly in half and clutching the borrowed coal pail from the front of the train, Héctor fought the urge to retch again. His head rested against the cool edge of the metal container as he panted tiredly and tried to ignore the smell of the bucket's contents. The bitter taste still filled his mouth. And even after all that, his stomach felt like it was being twisted into knots and carved up by knives.

If the _chorizo_ was responsible for his increasingly intense illness, then hopefully the worst of it had passed now. It took a while for the nausea to reach a state he couldn't resist, but the bucket eventually served its purpose and kept most of the mess from staining his charro suit. But quite some time had passed since he ate and there couldn't be much left in his gut, so he should start feeling better soon. This would pass.

He felt the rattling of the train on the tracks shift slightly, growing slower. Héctor tried to raise his head to look. The timing wasn't right. It was still too dark outside, though he could see the lights of the station. It was too early for this to be home.

"Not Santa Cecilia yet, _amigo_ ," said the man in the neighboring row. "It's just another stop."

His fellow passenger, Diego, had given up his attempts to sleep. He was also Héctor's current favorite person on the entire train. He'd managed to talk to the train conductor about finding the empty coal pail and overall seemed rather invested in Héctor's current condition. Of course, there wasn't much to otherwise distract the man. There were only a few people in their train car, the closest ones who were awake occasionally glancing at Héctor like Diego did. It was only natural that the man who recently evacuated the minimal contents of his stomach would draw the most attention.

"A few more hours and we should be there," continued Diego. "Then maybe you can sleep off the rest of your illness at home."

"Home sounds wonderful," Héctor said quietly, cringing at the pain that seemed to rip and tear through his stomach. "I've missed home. I've missed _them_."

Imelda.

Coco.

He would see them soon. He kept reassuring himself of that important fact. A few more hours and he would be back home. He would apologize for leaving for so long and everything would be fine. For the long minutes where the train remained still in the station, Héctor rested his head on the cool edge of the bucket with his eyes pressed shut. His mind kept focusing on his wife and daughter, trying to ignore his body's reactions to the illness.

When the train jerked forward a little, preparing to continue the journey towards Santa Cecilia, the movement sent a new spike of pain from his abdomen that seemed to jolt through most of his body. It was sudden and violent as lightning in a storm. Héctor curled around the bucket, trying to make himself as small as possible. Wave after wave of nausea kept coming.

Something was wrong. And it wasn't getting better like he hoped. Héctor didn't want to admit it, but he felt like he was getting worse. He didn't know if it was truly the _chorizo_ or some other form of illness, but it clearly hit hard and fast.

His stomach abruptly lurched sharply, too strong for him to fight it. Héctor managed to raise his head just enough to ensure that he aimed for the bucket as he vomited again. There shouldn't be much left, but he kept retching as his body rebelled. It continued for far too long. Even when there was nothing left, Héctor found himself trying to heave. And it only made everything hurt worse.

When he finally stopped, Héctor slumped tiredly on the bench. Panting and shivering, he kept his eyes pressed closed and tried not to move. The bitter and foul taste of bile clung to his mouth like a thick coating after all that.

But there was also the taste of copper…

A cold wave of dread crept up his spine as Héctor forced his eyes open. It was too dark to make out any details about the bucket's contents, not even the first hints of dawn reaching the sky. But reaching up to his lips, some of the wetness stuck to his fingers. The sticky warmness, the smell, and the coppery taste were enough to identify the substance even if he couldn't see much more than a darker color.

"You feeling any better or worse, _amigo_?" asked Diego.

"Worse," Héctor mumbled, his voice sounding rough from his previous retching. "I think it's getting worse."

He couldn't ignore his growing fear any more than he could ignore the sharp pain in his stomach. This was serious. There was no denying or brushing it off as a minor detail.

Panting and gasping, Héctor struggled against both the panic and pain gripping him. He wasn't a doctor. He only knew some common sense and basic medical knowledge. But everyone knew that vomiting blood was a very bad sign.

Home. Héctor gritted his teeth stubbornly. He was going _home_. No matter how sick he might be, he needed to get home. There was a doctor in Santa Cecilia. Whatever was wrong with him could wait until he was with his family. The doctor could look over him then. He just needed to deal with the pain and nausea until then.

He could manage that. Héctor knew he could handle it, even with the taste of bile and blood in his mouth. It couldn't get much worse. There was no possible way that he could feel worse within a few hours. And as long his symptoms didn't get much worse, he would be fine.

* * *

The morning sun streamed down as the train pulled into the station, Diego climbing to his feet almost before it came to a full stop. He gestured towards another of the few passengers in the train car, silently requesting help. It wasn't Diego's stop, but he'd already exchanged a few whispered words to the conductor and the train would be delayed at the station a little longer than normal. It wasn't much time, but it should be enough for one act of charity and kindness before Diego would need to continue his journey.

Diego would never be able to face his mamá ever again if he turned his back on someone so clearly in need.

Over the course of the night, the young _musíco_ had grown from being perfectly fine when he boarded to a pale, shaky, and weak scarecrow of a man. The occasional pain had grown into constant agony that seemed to be trying to consume him, too intense for him to even try to hide. He looked like something fished out of the river or dragged from a ditch. The young man, Héctor, kept trying to throw up even after there was nothing left. And Diego couldn't ignore the blood in the bucket now that the sun was up.

As the other recruited passenger grabbed Héctor's suitcase and guitar case, Diego tried to help the young _musíco_ to his feet. Héctor tried to uncurl from the tight ball on the bench, trying to stand to stand. He honestly tried, his teeth clenched tight as he struggled with his illness-induced weakness. But his sense of balance seemed to be suffering just as much as the rest of him. In the end, Diego was forced to sling the man's arm over his shoulders to support his weight while Héctor's free hand clutched desperately at the fabric of his charro suit

It was hard to move the tall and skinny figure. He seemed to be nothing but long limbs and bony angles, one that kept trying to curl up as he clutched at his stomach. And every movement seemed to produce another wince or hiss of pain.

"I know it hurts, _amigo_ ," said Diego. "But you're here. You're in Santa Cecilia. We'll get you to a doctor and he'll take care of you."

As they stumbled off the train, Héctor asked, "Imelda? Coco?" His voice was exhausted and strained. "My family?"

"Someone will find them and let them know where you are," assured Diego. "Let's just worry about you for right now."

Whatever the ill man intended to say in response, it was cut off as he nearly collapsed from another sudden spike in the level of pain. Héctor's fingers dug into the fabric of his clothes as he nearly bent in half, the tense whimper slipping out as he cringed. Only Diego's grip kept him on his feet.

Last night, the man seemed fine as he climbed on the train. Now, he was in complete agony and looked like someone with one foot in the grave.

"Doctor! We need directions to a doctor!" shouted Diego, startling the early morning risers.

Shocked and curious voices responded, but none of it was useful. And while Héctor might know where a doctor would live in his hometown, he was in no condition to answer any questions. He seemed to be struggling to hold onto consciousness through the pain.

"Is that Héctor? Héctor Rivera?" a voice in the growing crowd asked, a little louder than the rest.

"He needs a doctor," said Diego. "Tell me which way. And someone find his family."

* * *

Mornings were always busy the last few months, Imelda preparing her small work space for the day's work before rousing her daughter and younger brothers with breakfast made from whatever they had available. Afternoons were also busy, filled with taking orders and delivering them as more and more people realized that the shoes crafted by the woman with the absent husband were better than the ones created by the increasingly-sloppy Señor Iglesias. Her evenings were not much better, the woman working late into the night to finish the shoes on time. Her fifteen-year-old brothers tried their best to help, literally sneaking out of their parents' house in the middle of the night in order to run away and join their disowned sister while her husband was gone, but they were still learning and Imelda did most of the work. Spare time was a luxury she barely remembered.

She had little choice other than to be constantly working. Her newly-established business was still young, a fluttering and floundering thing that depended on word-of-mouth to draw in hesitant customers. And while she'd learned the basic skills and techniques for the craft and even figured out a few tricks to make the shoes better, Imelda could admit to being slow. She was inexperienced and speed would come with practice. But it meant that the business she started when Ernesto dragged her husband off months ago only brought in a small amount of money so far and she needed to supplement it with what her husband sent back from their dumb tour. Perhaps her shoes would be enough to support them someday, but not yet. Without both sources of income, Imelda knew that she wouldn't be able to care for her small family.

So as she, Oscar, and Felipe sat at the table with Coco, the excited girl talking to the pair and distracting them as their food grew cold, Imelda mentally went over her plans for the day. Running a business and raising a child took a bit of coordination.

Her brothers could help Coco get ready and watch over her during the morning, but she needed them to pick up a delivery of leather that afternoon. She could let them take the girl with them, but their hands would be full on the way back and Coco had a tendency to wander if not closely watched.

It would be better for Coco to stay with her mamá while they ran that errand. She could keep the girl busy by having her help clean up the scraps and showing how she put shoes together. Besides, Imelda enjoyed spending time with her daughter, no matter how busy she might be.

"Coco, finish your breakfast," Imelda said, her tone not concealing her distracted state of mind. Not even looking at them, she picked up her own empty plate from the table and carried it over to where the other dirty dishes waited. "Oscar, stop making those faces at Felipe. And Felipe, don't stick your tongue out at Oscar. _Try_ to set a better example for your _sobrina_ than that."

"She's better at that than Mamá," whispered Felipe, no doubt impressed that she could predict their actions without looking.

"Or _worse_ ," Oscar said with a slightly teasing tone. "You're no fun."

"I'm too busy for fun right now," Imelda said distractedly, setting the breakfast dishes to soak until later.

"You're _trying_ to sound grumpy now. Just wait until the next letter shows up," Oscar said. "He always knows what to say to put you into a good mood."

His voice a little quieter and annoyed on her behalf, Felipe muttered, "Unless the next letter says the tour is being extended. Again."

A familiar frown sliding into place, Imelda's shoulders set themselves stubbornly and she plunged her hands into the water. It wouldn't hurt to scrub a little now. It would save herself some work later. She attacked the old food stuck on the smooth surfaces. Her hands almost ached from the pressure that she was applying.

She didn't want him to leave. She repeatedly asked him not to go. She assured him that they had enough money and that it wasn't worth him disappearing. She told him that they would figure something out, that they would manage as long as they were together. She wanted him to stay. She and Coco needed him.

But Ernesto could always coax him into almost anything and it proved true once more. After several shorter trips to the various neighboring towns, the pair of _musícos_ left for a tour that was supposed to last a few months and would go all across Mexico. Imelda wasn't happy about it and she made certain to let her displeasure over the extended absence be known. But Ernesto wanted this. If it wasn't for the Revolution, he probably would have risked it years ago. Ernesto wanted the tour to happen. And wherever Ernesto led, her husband was certain to follow.

But the promised length of time had come and gone. And it seemed as if every new letter, though filled with apologies and poetic assurances of how much he missed his family, contained another excuse about how the tour needed to continue just a little longer. It was getting harder to be reasonable and understanding about the delays. It was growing harder to trust that it would end.

Imelda wasn't naïve. And she wasn't deaf to the words of their neighbors. She knew that traveling on the road and visiting the big city offered temptations that Santa Cecilia couldn't match. Temptations that her parents always warned that an orphan _musíco_ would succumb to without hesitation and made him unsuitable for marriage, leading to Imelda and later the twins cutting ties with their stubborn and uncompromising family members. Temptations that Ernesto would eager embrace and encourage his best friend to enjoy.

Stubbornly scrubbing, Imelda clenched her teeth. She knew her husband. She trusted him. She _loved_ him. That's why she married him against her parents' wishes and when he had so little to offer at the time. He was worth Mamá and Papá's disapproval. But a lifetime of friendship meant Ernesto held a strong influence on him. And where Ernesto led, her husband was certain to follow.

Imelda hated to even consider it, but it would be too much to hope that Ernesto wouldn't try dragging the younger man into some "fun." And the longer they were gone, the more likely that Ernesto would convince him to indulge in the less moral opportunities available so far away from Santa Cecilia. He was never good at standing up to Ernesto and no one else would ever know.

And no matter how much she wanted to trust her husband's loyalty and how she tried to shove those dark suspicions down, Imelda couldn't completely ignore the unpleasant possibility. A small whisper in her mind warned that perhaps he kept writing about extending the tour because he no longer wanted to come home. And she _hated_ that whisper. She hated that any part of her could doubt her husband like that. But the longer he was gone and the more excuses filled his letters, the more that she wondered… what if?

"Mamá?" called Coco, drawing her out of her thoughts and furious scrubbing. Imelda glanced at her daughter. "Papá will be home soon, right? You said it'll be my birthday soon. He'll be back then, right? Papá is coming home?"

Something deep in Imelda's chest twisted sharply at the far-too-familiar question. Every time their family received a letter from anyone or they mentioned the man even vaguely, Coco would ask when her papá would be back. It wasn't too bad when he would only leave for a week or two at most. But this tour hadn't been easy for any of them. And Imelda hated the look of disappointment when she couldn't give her daughter the answers that she wanted.

Trying to keep her voice even, Imelda said gently, " _Míja_ …"

Loud, frantic, and almost violent pounding at the door startled all of them and cut off Imelda's words. Her surprise quickly morphed into shock. How dare they? She didn't care how badly they needed customers. If they couldn't be polite enough to wait for her to actually start for the day, if they couldn't let her spare a few precious moments in the morning with her family, then they would just have to put up with wearing Señor Iglesias' shoes.

When the forceful pounding didn't stop and didn't even slow, Imelda squared her shoulders and marched towards the door. She was not at anyone's beck and call. They would learn some respect even if that meant testing the quality of her newest boots' heels on their skull.

But whatever sharp words that she might have used died on her tongue as she flung open the door. Fist still raised from his frantic knocking, Martín García was panting heavily and holding the door frame for support. He lived at nearly the opposite end of Santa Cecilia and, judging by the sweat and wind-tossed hair, he'd just ran that entire distance. That combined with the wide-eyed and almost desperate expression sent an icy chill into her guts that Imelda couldn't explain or ignore.

"Señora Rivera," Martín managed to say through his exhausted panting. "You must go to Dr. Ramírez's home. Immediately."

The icy chill sharpening into something that she began to recognize as dread, she asked. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's your husband."

Héctor.

She didn't ask anything more. Not even when her husband returned or what happened to him. Or why she needed to hurry to the doctor. The small handful of words and the urgency in his voice were enough. Questions could wait. Worry and dread shoved aside all higher thoughts. Imelda needed to move.

"Oscar. Felipe. Get Coco taken care of and follow," she ordered, knowing the pair would have been eavesdropping and would obey.

She shoved down her concerns, worries, half-formed fears, and general confusion. She needed to focus only on immediate concerns. And that would be reaching Dr. Ramíerz's home as quickly as possible.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong and it had to do with Héctor.

Imelda didn't hesitate after delivering her orders to her brothers. She didn't even wait for a response. She was already hurrying down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, on the one hand, Héctor made it back to Santa Cecilia a lot sooner than he did in the movie. On the other hand, he’s not doing that great at the moment.
> 
> Educational factoid time! Acute arsenic poisoning has a lot of unpleasant symptoms and can start up between 30 minutes and two hours of ingestion. These may include (among others) garlic odor, vomiting (including vomiting blood), abdominal pain, cramping muscles, dehydration, cardiac problems, vertigo, shortness of breath and fast breathing due to acute respiratory distress syndrome, shock, convulsions, coma, and eventually death.
> 
> So yeah, Héctor was lucky that in the film that he lost consciousness fairly quickly and missed out on the worst symptoms of being poisoned.


	2. My World Es Mi Familia

Coco flinched as the brush pulled sharply at the tangles in her hair, but managed not to complain about the rough treatment. Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe weren't usually this bad at getting her ready in the morning, but they weren't usually trying to rush either. Normally they could brush out her hair and braid it, each one working on a side. And they did a good job most of the time. But not nearly as good as Mamá. Or even Papá.

That made her smile despite their frantic brushing. Papá was home. He was finally home. Or at least really close to home. She heard what Señor García told Mamá. Papá was back. And then Mamá left to go to Dr. Ramírez's house, which was probably where Papá was.

That was why Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe were being so rough as they hurried with her hair. They were supposed to follow Mamá when Coco was ready to go. And the faster that she got ready, the sooner they could leave. And the sooner she would see Papá.

"Do you think Papá missed me?" she asked.

"Of course," said Oscar distractedly. "Didn't he—"

"—always say so in his letters?" Felipe finished.

She would have nodded, but they were starting to braid her hair. Coco remembered Mamá reading the letters to her, her fingers moving along each word as she spoke. Coco could recognize a few of the words in Papá's handwriting now, like her name. And she loved the pictures that he sometimes drew around the edges of the letters. But the best part was that each letter always mentioned how much he loved her and missed her.

But while Coco wanted to smile thinking about the letters from her papá, she couldn't forget what was happening. Papá was with Dr. Ramírez. And Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe looked worried.

"Is… Papá all right?" she asked slowly.

Coco saw the pair exchange looks over her head. The two of them were always good at talking silently like that. Mamá could do it too, telling them different things without a word. Coco wasn't as good at figuring this stuff out yet. Maybe it was a grownup thing. After all, her tíos were almost grownups.

"I'm sure he's fine," said Oscar, tying a ribbon at the end of her braid.

"Then why is he with Dr. Ramírez?"

Finishing off his braid, Felipe said, "It's probably for something simple. Like a headache."

"Or a cough," suggested Oscar.

"Or a stuffy nose."

"Or a sore throat."

"Or a skinned knee."

"Or a stubbed toe."

"Or a splinter in his finger."

"Or maybe a bruised thumb."

Coco's head bobbed back and forth, trying to follow the conversation as they kept switching. She sometimes got dizzy when the two of them started talking quickly.

Felipe finished firmly, "But no matter what's wrong, Dr. Ramírez will take care of him."

"And Mamá is with Papá now," said Coco, feeling more confident. "She can make everything better."

Hesitating for a moment, Oscar said, "If anyone can help him, it'll be the doctor and Mamá Imelda."

Coco nodded firmly. Of _course_ Mamá would make Papá feel better. Mamá could fix anything. She was _Mamá_.

"But if we want to catch up with her, we better get moving," said Felipe. "Go put your shoes on."

Coco nodded again before dashing over to where she kept them. Papá hadn't seen the new shoes that Mamá made her yet. Maybe seeing how pretty they looked would cheer him up and maybe even make Papá feel a little better.

* * *

"Are you certain that you haven't eaten or drank anything since yesterday evening?" asked Dr. Ramírez gently, trying to find something to disprove his suspicions. "Any medicine that you took or were offered when you felt bad? Anything like that, Señor? Anything at all?"

Visibly relaxing from the injection dulling his pain a little, Héctor breathed, "No. Just _chorizo_ at dinner. And a toast with Ernesto. Right before the train." He closed his eyes, sinking further into the pillow tiredly. "Didn't expect to get food poisoning. It didn't taste bad."

Dr. Ramírez bit his tongue, not correcting the man's self-diagnosis. He didn't want to cause more stress to his patient. Not when Dr. Ramírez didn't know for certain and when Héctor arrived in such poor condition.

The two men who brought him in couldn't stay long, barely having time to drop him and his luggage off before running back to their train. But he still managed to gather some information as they helped the patient into the spare bedroom in the back, the one that Dr. Ramírez kept for cases that took longer or needed to lie down. Apparently Héctor seemed fine when he first boarded the train, but spiraled down over the course of hours. And they told him when the symptoms started and how they'd progressed.

The doctor had thanked them for their help as they hurried out the door and then pulled out his supply of morphine from where he kept it tucked away. He couldn't risk too much or Héctor wouldn't be clear-headed and aware enough to provide the answers the doctor desperately needed. But he injected enough to ease the pain trying to overwhelm the man. Dr. Ramírez was just afraid that he wouldn't be able to do much more than that.

No matter what Héctor might believe, this wasn't food poisoning. The symptoms held some similarities, but they weren't right. Not exactly. The dry heaving that occasionally gave way to blood had replace the previously-described vomiting. And before Dr. Ramírez and his wife settled him into the spare bed, they cleaned him up and changed him into more comfortable clothes from his suitcase. Though Héctor seemed aware enough to be uncomfortable about needing help with even the basics, it meant that Dr. Ramírez managed to add dark urine and watery stool with similar hints of blood to his growing list of concerning symptoms. The pain throughout his abdomen, the hints of vertigo suggested by his balance issue and how he kept pressing his eyes closed as he swayed, the occasional shivering that could be chills, and the timing for when it all started were all added to his observations.

But the faint scent of garlic was the real reason that Dr. Ramírez didn't believe it was a serious case of food poisoning. A scent of garlic on his breath and in the meager contents from when Héctor managed to vomit up blood and bile… It was something that he'd learned about, mostly in the case of accidental ingestion or an overdose on certain medications.

He hoped he was wrong. He hoped that it was something else. He didn't have the equipment to test his theory and they would have to travel to one of the larger neighboring towns to reach an actual hospital that might be able to prove his diagnosis. There was supposedly an older and simpler way to test it, burning his vomit to see if it still smelled like garlic, but it wasn't exactly a standard or reliable method of proving anything. For the moment, there was no way to prove any diagnosis.

But part of him knew. He knew what was poisoning Héctor wasn't the _chorizo_ , but arsenic.

And in some ways, what was more concerning than the severity of the condition was the timing. The _chorizo_ that he ate for dinner couldn't have been where the arsenic was introduced. He would have been ill long before reaching the train station. Besides, he couldn't figure out how someone could accidentally put arsenic in his meal or why a complete stranger might do it on purpose. So that couldn't be when it happened. And if Héctor was honest with his answer, then the only other possibility was the tequila from his toast.

The tequila that Ernesto gave him.

Santa Cecilia was a small town. Most people knew each other at least a little. And the charismatic man with so many young women admiring his looks, his charms, and his music was not one to easily forget. Dr. Ramírez knew who Ernesto was. Just as he knew that the man was best friends with his current patient. When they played together, they always drew a crowd. And he knew that they left together to perform all over Mexico. A trip that was taking a long time.

But Ernesto did not come back on that train. Only Héctor, the talented _músico_ who didn't have the same stage presence and boisterous voice as Ernesto, but who made up for it beautiful songs that everyone enjoyed. Héctor came back alone after a toast with his best friend, suffering from severe arsenic poisoning.

But the who, how, and why could wait for now. Pushing that entire train of thought to the back of his mind, Dr. Ramírez tried to focus on more immediate concerns. Specifically, he needed to try and treat his patient. Even if he couldn't prove it was arsenic yet, he intended to proceed as such. Managing his pain, keeping him calm and comfortable, and keeping him hydrated was his main priorities. Without access to a well-stocked hospital in a major city, that was all that he could do. He could treat the symptoms plaguing his patient.

But an unknown amount of arsenic had been in his system for a prolonged period of time. There was only so much that anyone could do. He wasn't even certain that an actual hospital would be able to make a difference. It all depended on factors outside of Dr. Ramírez's control.

At least Héctor looked better than when he arrived. Still bearing an unhealthy complexion and clearly exhausted, the strain had eased from his face after the morphine took effect. The pain no longer threatened to overwhelm him. It was pushed back enough that his patient could do more than curl into a whimpering ball.

"You're going to be laid up for a while," Dr. Ramírez said. "That's the best-case scenario, so you should get used to the idea. And I know you're not going to want it, but you're going to need to drink all the water than my wife is bringing you. But don't worry. Margarita is almost as good at helping patients as I am."

Eyes still shut, Héctor mumbled, "Don't know if I can keep it down."

"You need to try, Señor," he said gently. "You've been vomiting all night. You're dehydrated."

A soft knock at the door was swiftly followed by Margarita opening it. Her dark hair pulled back and carrying a full pitcher and a cup, she met her husband's eyes as she crossed the room.

"She's here, Jorge," said Margarita as she placed her burden on the side table next to the morphine and needle from earlier. "Imelda Rivera is in the front room right now."

That quiet announcement sparked some more life into their patient. Héctor's eyes flew open and he forced himself to sit up a little, pushing back on the pillow to support his new position. Breathing shakily, he stared at the door with desperate hope.

Giving her a nod, Dr. Ramírez said, " _Gracias_. Please go and show her in."

Before Margarita could manage more than a couple steps back towards the door, another woman shoved her way inside. Younger and with a more stubborn expression, she moved past Margarita without hesitation. Clearly Imelda Rivera wasn't waiting for an invitation.

* * *

Imelda could admit that part of her was relieved when she marched herself into that room and saw her husband. After so many months without Héctor and with no idea of when he would come back, just the glimpse of his familiar face sent a warmth through her. She'd _missed_ him. She'd missed her husband more than she could bear. But as she marched past all obstacles between them, including Señora Margarita Ramírez, another part of her flared up in anger.

"We have very different opinions of what 'no longer than two months at most' means, Héctor Rivera," she said, unable to keep the bite completely out of her voice.

Giving her a weak and sheepish grin, Héctor said, " _Lo siento_. I know I'm a little late. Can you forgive me?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but the rest of his appearance finally began to register. There were dark circles under his eyes from exhaustion and a faintly hazy quality to his gaze. His hair was sweat-soaked even at that early hour and his complexion looked paler than it should. Even propped up against a pillow, Héctor's arms were wrapped around his middle like he wanted to curl up. Occasionally he closed his eyes tightly and swayed unsteadily in place. The room smelled of sickness and his voice had a roughness to it that didn't belong.

This was why he was brought to the doctor's home.

"What happened?" she asked quietly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Imelda took his hand. "How do you feel?"

"I got on the train to come back. Ernesto wanted to continue touring. He wanted me to stay longer. But I missed my girls," said Héctor slowly. "But on the way back, I… started feeling sick. I think it was something I ate."

Imelda thought she saw a flicker of something across Dr. Ramírez's face, but she didn't spare it much thought. She was too busy refamiliarizing herself with her husband. She _missed_ Héctor so much while he was gone. Imelda couldn't tear her eyes away from his tired face. Her thumb rubbed across his fingers, remember each of the callouses formed by years of guitar strings digging into his flesh. She'd missed the feeling of his hands. She'd missed his touch. She'd missed everything about him. For the moment, the fire of her anger and frustration at this long absence was banked. Love, relief at his return, and worry over his condition won out.

"I tried to make it home," he said. "It was just… too far to walk. I'm too tired…" He tried to hide it, but she saw him cringe briefly. " _Lo siento_."

"I know, Héctor. I know. But you're here. And we'll get you back home and let you rest in our bed once you feel better," assured Imelda. She paused a moment to press a kiss on the knuckles of his hand. "I missed you, Héctor. I'm glad you're finally back."

He smiled at both her words and the kiss. Héctor, even with exhaustion and discomfort clouding his eyes, stared back at her with the same level of adoration as the day she first noticed his goofy grin. Some things never change. It was part of the reason that it was hard to stay mad at him. It was part of the reason that she missed him so much.

"You've missed a lot while you were gone," continued Imelda, her thumb tracing along his knuckles gently. "Oscar and Felipe have been staying with us. They've been helping. And I've been making shoes."

"Shoes?" he asked with a slight frown of confusion.

"Coco needed new shoes, so I made some for her. They turned out better than expected. I've been making and selling them since then. Shoes are solid and practical. Everyone needs them. And the business is starting to grow."

Squeezing her hand slightly, Héctor said, "Of course it's doing well, _mi amor_. You could always succeed at anything you tried." He pressed his eyes shut briefly, his expression tensing for a moment. When the worst of it seemed to pass, he continued, "Maybe you can make me a pair. Or teach me some."

"You would be horrible at making shoes," said Imelda with a small chuckle. "Completely horrible. Do you know how long it would take to teach you?"

"That's fine. I'm not going anywhere, Imelda."

She smiled, her hand cupping his face as she leaned forward to press a kiss to his brow. He leaned into the contact, just as eager to be close to her again. The idea of her husband staying warmed her heart. She wanted to see him every day, to wake up next to him every morning. She wanted to be with Héctor. She wanted him to stay.

And he was staying. That thought was more important than the clamminess of his skin beneath her hand or the occasional shiver. Héctor was clearly ill, but everything would be fine as long as they were together.

"I'm still mad you left," she whispered before kissing his brow again.

"I know, _mi amor_. I know. But I'm not leaving again."

A door opened somewhere else in the house, causing Imelda to look up. She'd almost forgotten that there was anyone else in the world other than her and Héctor. The doctor and his wife, who had been polite enough to give the pair some space for their reunion, exchanged confused looks.

"Mamá? Papá?"

Héctor stiffened, his expression shifting rapidly at the sound of their daughter's voice calling from another room. He pushed himself up a little more until he was actually sitting up in the bed. His face settled into a look of love and longing as he stared at the door.

" _Míja_ …," he whispered.

The doctor's wife stepped over and opened the door, vanishing into the rest of the house. A few moments later, Oscar and Felipe edged their way into the room. And standing between them anxiously was Coco.

The moment her eyes locked onto the figure in the bed, the child's face lit up. Then she tore away from the twins' grip, running towards the man.

"Papá! Papá!"

Imelda barely stood up and caught Coco before the girl could launch herself at him. The overly-enthusiastic way that she would throw herself at Héctor like when she woke him up in the morning wouldn't be such a good idea right now.

"Easy, Coco. Be careful," Imelda said. "Your papá isn't feeling good. He's a little sick, so be gentle."

Nodding solemnly, the girl said, "I will. Promise."

Once Imelda released their daughter, Coco climbed onto the bed, across his lap, and into Héctor's waiting arms. He hugged the girl almost desperately to his chest, taking a shaking breath as he pressed his cheek into her hair. His entire posture screamed relief at holding her again. The small smile that crossed his face seemed completely relaxed.

"I missed you, Papá," she said, pulling back enough to look him in the face. With a serious expression, Coco said, "You were gone a hundred years."

"That long?" asked Héctor, his tired voice taking on a slight teasing quality. "Surely not, _míja_. You would be an old lady then. Where's your white hair and wrinkles?"

" _Papá_ ," she giggled. "Fine. Maybe not a hundred years. But it was a really, really, really long time."

"So only _almost_ a hundred years. Maybe only ninety-six years instead?" suggested Héctor. Pulling her close in a hug again, he said, "I'm sorry, Coco. I didn't mean to stay away for so long. I missed you so much."

"I missed you more," she said.

"Not possible, _míja_ ," murmured Héctor. He loosened his grip and let her lean back, allowing him to cup her face with both hands. "Look at how much you've grown. I can't believe I missed that."

Reaching up, Coco's hand wrapped around his fingers. Imelda watched them for a moment. Her daughter looked happier than she had in months. And no matter how tired and weak that Héctor appeared, his smile couldn't be brighter.

But as much as Imelda wished to let things continue, her husband's illness couldn't be ignored.

"Come here, Coco," coaxed Imelda quietly. "Your papá needs to rest so he can feel better."

Their daughter reluctantly pulled out of his embrace. But rather than immediately sliding off the bed, she hesitated. Coco bit her bottom lip, glancing between her parents.

"When I go to sleep, I need my song," Coco said. "Maybe Papá will sleep better with a song too. Then he'll get better even faster."

"Just seeing you and your mamá makes me feel better, _míja_ ," said Héctor, still holding her small hand and smiling weakly. "I don't need anything else."

She shook her head and said, "No, you need a song."

They weren't going to be able to convince their daughter otherwise. The little girl's face was set in the most stubborn expression imaginable. While normally very easy-going like her papá, Coco could be difficult to dissuade once she set her mind on something. Imelda had no idea where she got that occasional stubborn streak.

Glancing towards the corner of the room where his belongings rested, Héctor said, "I don't think I feel up to playing my guitar right now."

"I don't mind. I can still sing our song."

 _Our song_.

Imelda stared at their daughter's hopeful eyes. She knew that Coco and Héctor shared a close relationship. He adored their daughter. But she didn't know that the two of them had a specific song that the girl would consider "theirs." But it wasn't unbelievable. Héctor wrote a song for Imelda once, a beautiful and lively thing that made her smile. He would certainly come up with something for Coco.

Héctor pressed his eyes shut briefly, his head wobbling a little. It took a moment before his expression relaxed again. But when it did, he managed to look at their daughter and he gave her an encouraging smile.

Taking that as permission to start, Coco sang in her childish chirpy voice, "Remember me, though I have to say goodbye."

"Remember me." Héctor started singing as well, the weak and quiet voice joining Coco's. "Don't let it make you cry."

Imelda knew that song. She recognized the tune, even if she had never heard the words properly. She'd caught brief moments of it when she passed Coco's door at night. Their daughter would sing it to herself before going to sleep.

"For even if I'm far away, I hold you in my heart. I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart."

No one wanted to interrupt this precious moment between the girl and her papá. Not Imelda. Not the twins standing near the door. Not Dr. Ramírez, keeping his distance with an unreadable expression on his face. No one spoke or moved. They did nothing other than watch and listen to the fragile duet.

There was something indistinct and unspoken hanging between them, something that none wanted to acknowledge or notice. They all suspected or feared something, but refused to allow the thought to fully form.

"Remember me, though I have to travel far. Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar."

Coco's voice was sweet and bright. But no matter how much Héctor tried to sound like his normal self as he sang with her, he couldn't hide how much he was struggling.

"Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be. Until you're in my arms again… Remember me."

The song came to an end, Héctor's voice fading to near silence during the last verse. But he finished it. And his tired eyes never stopped looking at her with adoration. Coco leaned forward and pecked a quick kiss on his nose before finally sliding off the bed.

"Feel better, Papá," said Coco. "Love you."

"I love you too," he whispered. "So much."

Taking their daughter's hand, Imelda said, "Come along, Coco. Your papá needs his rest and you need to help your tíos today. It's a big job, _míja_. While Dr. Ramírez and I look after your papá, I need you to look after things and to give people the finished shoes."

Coco gave a firm nod, taking her new responsibilities seriously. Imelda's eyes briefly flickered to her brothers. Oscar and Felipe gave their own small nods. They understood their sister's silent request. They would take care of Coco and keep her distracted. And they would deliver the completed orders if the customers showed up, even if Oscar and Felipe couldn't do much work on new orders. The twins would keep everything together while Imelda was busy with her husband.

"Why don't you see your girl out?" suggested Dr. Ramírez gently. "I'll meet you in the front room and speak to you in a moment."

For some reason, a strange feeling of dread briefly washed over her before Imelda could shove it down. She gave a small smile to Coco, trying to reassure and comfort their daughter. Then, still holding her small hand, she led the girl towards the door.

She wasn't certain what made Imelda look back, but she did. She glanced back towards the bed and her husband. Now that he didn't have Coco sitting next to him, Héctor didn't have to put on an act about how he felt. Dr. Ramírez pulled a bucket from the far side of the bed just as her husband started dry heaving.

He looked paler, weaker, more exhausted, and more miserable than she could have possibly imagined, breathing shakily when his attempts to vomit paused. Imelda felt her heart clench at the sight. Now that he believed that he no longer had an audience, she could see how much Héctor tried to hide his condition behind a mask of normalcy, not wanting Coco to see the truth. And not wanting Imelda to see either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Héctor managed to do what he always wanted to do in the movie. He got to see his family and tell them that he was trying to come home to them. That means everything is fine and happy now, right? Right?
> 
> …So how evil do you think the writer is?


	3. Count It As A Blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost everyone is freaking out in the comments, terrified and heartbroken already. I guess I've done a good job of establishing myself as an evil writer. Let's see how things unfold, shall we?

As he ensured that his patient finished drinking his cup of water and Héctor had the bucket in his lap in case he couldn't keep it down, Dr. Ramírez tried to decide what he was going to say. The family deserved to know what was happening.

The twin boys suspected the severity of the situation. He'd seen that much in their eyes. The daughter had no idea, innocently believing that her papá just needed some rest. And his wife… Imelda Rivera was a difficult woman to read. But they all deserved to know how serious Héctor's condition truly was.

"I'll return shortly," said Dr. Ramírez. "Try to get some rest, Señor."

His eyes squeezed shut as he remained leaning over the bucket, Héctor managed to murmur his agreement. But as miserable as he looked, he didn't start heaving immediately. He managed to keep down the water that he drank, even though it was a clear struggle. The man should be able to handle being alone for a few moments.

As Dr. Ramírez slipped out of the room, he passed Margarita. They exchanged brief glances. They _knew_. They both knew. His wife might not be a doctor, but she had an instinct for these things. Margarita could clearly see the same things that he did, even if she didn't have the education to make a more precise diagnosis. She knew what was happening.

"I'll find a chair for his wife," Margarita said. "She may be here for a while."

Once he gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment, she vanished into the rest of the house and Dr. Ramírez headed towards the front room. He found Imelda and one of her twin brothers waiting.

The half-grown boy stood there, rubbing his arms awkwardly and biting his bottom lip. He couldn't hide his worry. It was rare to see one twin without the other, but someone needed to take the young girl home and look after her. So Dr. Ramírez was left with one of the brothers in his home and no clue which one it might be.

The woman didn't show the same type of anxiety. Imelda was pacing, her back ramrod straight and her arms crossed. Her posture screamed agitation.

"Señora Rivera," said Dr. Ramírez gently.

Spinning around to face him, she snapped, "What's _wrong_ with him? How ill is Héctor? Tell us the truth."

The front room, while comfortable for the family to relax in or entertain company, mostly served as a space for his patients and their families. And as such, they'd furnished it with several comfortable and sturdy chairs to ensure there was plenty of space to sit. Dr. Ramírez indicated towards one of them, hoping that she would sit down for this conversation. Imelda didn't take a single step towards any of the chairs.

"Your husband seems to think that food poisoning is the cause," he said evenly. "I am not as certain. Some of the symptoms match, but others do not quite fit. And the timing is wrong for his dinner to be the cause. He would have become ill before the train ride. The only thing that he claims to have consumed afterwards was tequila, a parting toast with Señor de la Cruz."

"If it isn't food poisoning, then what is it? A fever or illness? Something sweeping through one of the towns they visited?" asked Imelda.

"It is possible," Dr. Ramírez said hesitantly. "Though I have other theories."

Theories that he couldn't prove at the moment. A hospital would be able to prove whether or not arsenic was involved. A hospital might also be able to offer treatments that Dr. Ramírez didn't have access to. He tended to handle more common illnesses, farm work-related injuries, and similar problems. More serious issues were stabilized before being sent to the hospital, a long distance that he couldn't recommend for Héctor's case. He feared that his patient's condition would swiftly deteriorate if they tried to move him much.

"What theories?" asked the half-grown boy quietly.

Shaking his head slightly, Dr. Ramírez said, "Whether I'm right or not, the fact of the matter is that his condition remains serious. I've reduced his pain for now, but he's still dehydrated. The other symptoms can only be endured while keeping him comfortable and trying to get water into him. There is only so much that I can do as we wait to see if this will pass."

"If?" said Imelda, her voice tight and rigid.

"I would not wish to lie or give you false hope, Señora," he said evenly. "He could not even stand on his own when he arrived and was in too much pain at first to acknowledge my presence. And he reached this state within a matter of hours. I will do everything in my power to help. But if I am right about my theory, it may be out of my hands."

"What theory?" repeated her brother. "What do you think is wrong with Héctor?"

Dr. Ramírez hesitated, not wanting to voice the cruel suspicion aloud. He didn't want to make such an accusation without proof. And speaking it would make it seem more believable. It would make it seem more real. He didn't want it to be true because it would seal his patient's fate.

But instinct told him that he was right. And if he was right, they deserved to know.

"The symptoms, the severity, and the timing all suggest that the patient… might be suffering from acute arsenic poisoning." As the woman and her brother stiffened, Dr. Ramírez continued, "And if what he told me is right, then it must have been from the tequila that he drank last night." He hesitated a moment before adding one last thing. "The tequila from the toast with Señor de la Cruz."

"Are… are you… Do you mean that…?" stammered the half-grown boy, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "You think Ernesto…"

"Do you know for certain?" Imelda asked, her voice snapping sharply like a whip.

Shaking his head slightly, Dr. Ramírez said, "No, Señora. A hospital might be able to test for it and I could send a sample for them to examine, but that would take time."

"And if it _is_ arsenic," she said, her voice strained and even, "what does that mean for Héctor?"

Speaking slowly and hesitantly, Dr. Ramírez said, "It depends on how much that he might have consumed. Best case scenario, it might be a small enough amount that he might eventually recover. There would likely be permanent damage to his nerves and long-term problems to his heart, liver, and other organs. He would never be truly healthy if that should be the case, but he would be alive. But if there is too much arsenic in his body—"

"But you don't know," Imelda interrupted. "You don't know that it is arsenic that is poisoning my husband. You don't know that Ernesto, the man who has always been like a brother to Héctor, poisoned him. On accident or on purpose."

"How would he poison Héctor's tequila on accident?" asked her brother, not hiding his horror as effectively as she was.

"I don't _know_ , Felipe," she snapped, the faintest cracks of emotional distress forming as her control slipped slightly. "And that's the point. For all his theories, Dr. Ramírez knows nothing for certain about Héctor's condition and neither do we. It could be another form of sickness. One that is severe, but one that will pass. We don't know."

She sounded like she was struggling as she spoke. Dr. Ramírez wasn't certain if she was trying to keep her voice from shaking or if she was attempting not to shout, but Imelda was obviously fighting to control each word.

"I am going to be staying with Héctor until he is well enough to come home," she said firmly. "And none of you will mention these theories to him. Not unless you _know_. Héctor doesn't need to hear people accusing his friend of poisoning him. Not without proof or even a _reason_ why Ernesto would do such a thing. I won't let you upset Héctor like that. Not now. He doesn't need to worry about such things while he's sick." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "We'll figure all this out when he's recovered. We'll wait until he gets better." She straightened back up again and added, "And don't you even dare suggest to him that he…"

She glared at the doctor even as she trailed off, forceful and determined. The young woman's shoulders were set and her head raised. Her expression and posture declared she would accept no further argument. Fire burned in her dark eyes, ready to burn those who did not take caution. The gentle warmth that she shared with her daughter and husband had been replaced by something more aggressive. She was a force of nature given human form. Anyone who would even suggest that she might lose her loved one would be met with a fight, whether it be Dr. Ramírez or death itself.

Denial could take many forms.

"Go home, Felipe," she said finally. "Oscar will need help. And if anyone asks about the shoe orders for the next few days, give them my apologies. We may run a little late on those."

" _Sí_ , Imelda," said the half-grown boy.

Her face still set in that stubborn expression, the young woman marched her way back they came. She nearly plowed over the approaching Margarita, her hands full carrying the guitar case and luggage. Imelda at least muttered an apology before vanishing back towards the spare bedroom.

"I thought one of you might want to take his belongings home," Margarita said as way of explanation. "It seemed wrong leaving everything on the floor in a corner. Especially with how pitiful he already seems." She shook her head, muttering to herself. " _Pobrecito_ …"

" _Gracias_ ," said Felipe. He accepted the offered belongings, but he couldn't seem to meet their faces. "I… I can take these with me. I was about to leave anyway."

Anxiety clung to every inch of him. Part of it might be due to being alone. Dr. Ramírez didn't recall ever seeing one of the Rivera twins without the other before this point. But mostly the half-grown boy was worried. He didn't share his sister's stubborn denial. Felipe was at least considering the possibility that Héctor's condition was as grave as Dr. Ramírez feared.

"You said that Héctor is in pain and dehydrated," said Felipe slowly.

"I gave him enough morphine to take the edge off for now," he assured. "And we'll continue to try and get some water into him. Keeping it in his stomach is the problem."

"Is there anything else that can be done? Anything we can do to help?"

" _Pray_. Pray that I am wrong," Dr. Ramírez said without hesitation. "If it is arsenic poisoning, then Héctor Rivera needs all of our prayers. That's the only thing that might make a difference. Pray for relief from his suffering."

It would get worse. That's what he feared. It would get worse and there was little that they could do to help. Héctor's fate was out of their hands. Whether he would recover was between the man and God now.

Dr. Ramírez quietly hoped relief came swiftly for his poor patient. Either from Héctor recovering from the vicious illness causing his suffering… or from it ending in a more abrupt fashion. He feared that either outcome would be a kindness before this was over.

* * *

The sharp and burning pain, the one that filled his gut while occasionally stabbing higher and lower, felt more distant than before. Like it had been pushed back. He could still feel it. He knew it was there. But it felt farther away, letting him almost ignore the feeling of fire and knives ripping him apart. That particular form of pain was no longer all-consuming. Before, he couldn't even notice the needle poke into his arm. But now, he could recognize the rest of the sensations plaguing him.

His throat felt raw from all the vomiting and even the water couldn't completely banish the taste of bile and blood from his mouth. And he kept needing to close his eyes, struggling with the feeling of the room spinning without warning. That only served to exacerbate the nausea. He could feel a tightness in his raw and sore throat. It made his earlier song difficult to finish.

And while not as sharp and intense as the pain in his gut, the rest of his body hurt. His muscles were cramping, feeling more like he'd worked all day in the fields outside Santa Cecilia instead of sitting on a train all night. And when he shivered from the chills that kept hitting him, it only made his body ache worse.

Whatever sickness that the _chorizo_ caused, it hit hard. Everything hurt and he was _exhausted_. All his strength was being stolen and he desperately needed sleep. The doctor's needle eased the pain to a manageable level, but it didn't make it stop. He needed _relief_.

Héctor slumped his head forward a little, resting it against the bucket as he panted wearily. It was a nice bed with soft pillows to prop his tired body up and comfortable blankets to wrap around himself. It was a clean room with warm sunshine and fresh air coming through the window. But it wasn't enough to let him rest. The sickness wouldn't let him.

His gut churned. He tried to keep the water down. He _tried_. But eventually his stomach would rebel too much for him to resist. He could feel it.

He wasn't getting better. Not even slightly. And the pain, nausea, and exhaustion outweighed the blurry haze that the drugs cast over his mind. There was a feeling of dread that he couldn't banish. He thought seeing his wife and daughter would fix it, that it would set his mind at ease. And it _did_ feel wonderful to see them again. It warmed a part of his soul that had been aching for them. But Héctor still felt like something ominous and inescapable was hanging over him.

He didn't want to consider it, but between how awful he felt and the heavy cloud of dread trying to suffocate him, the idea felt all too possible. He… He might be…

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. Héctor raised his head tiredly, meeting Imelda's eyes. He wasn't able to hide behind a reassuring grin this time, not before she saw how tired he felt and how much he hurt. But he still tried.

"It's all right, _mi amor_ ," he said quietly. Héctor reached up and cupped her cheek, trying to banish the worry in Imelda's eyes with his touch. "It's all right."

Closing her eyes, Imelda reached up and covered his hand with her own. She took a shaking breath and leaned into the contact.

"Don't say that. Not when you're so ill and trying to hide it from me," whispered Imelda. "Don't lie to me like that."

" _Lo siento_. I didn't want to worry you or Coco."

She pulled his hand down to her lips, kissing his knuckles gently. Héctor saw the worry that he'd wanted to prevent. But he could see something else in her beautiful eyes. Something that Imelda wanted to hide.

"What's wrong? What happened?" he asked.

Imelda shook her head and said, "Nothing. That _idiota_ of a doctor just said something that upset me."

"It's more than that, _mi amor_. If you were only angry, I would have heard you yelling. You are many things, but subtle isn't one of them," Héctor said slowly.

The pain in his abdomen abruptly spiked through the drugs dulling it, making him cringe. The room seemed to spin around him wildly. The agony and nausea causing his fingers to tighten around the bucket, he finally lost the battle with his stomach. The water and the small amount of blood and bile surged up his raw throat as he retched for what felt like the thousandth time. It took a few moments before the worst of it began to ease once more, leaving him gasping and shuddering weakly.

Gentle hands pulled the bucket aside before pushing back his sweat-soaked hair from his face. Small and familiar hands with new callouses from their new craft. Imelda's hands.

Héctor wished that she hadn't seen that. He didn't want her to see how bad the sickness was affecting him. But it was too late now and besides…

He _missed_ her.

He leaned into her soothing touch, keeping his eyes closed. It didn't erase the pain, but it gave him something more pleasant to focus on. Just as seeing Coco and holding her made it easier to ignore his body's rebellious state. He felt her fingers trace along his face as if studying his features after their long separation, her thumb rubbing along his jawline briefly before sliding up to his cheek.

"Oh, _Héctor_ …," murmured Imelda sadly.

"You're scared," he whispered. "You're not just upset. You're scared."

Her hands froze at his words. He decided to risk the vertigo and opened his eyes. Imelda stared back at him, her face drawn tight. Then, with a small shake of her head, she seemed to relax and gave him a reassuring smile.

"I'm worried and upset about how you feel," said Imelda evenly. "Especially when I just got you back. I'm upset that you are finally home, but you're so sick." Her hands reached for his, squeezing his fingers briefly. "That's not the same thing as being scared."

Héctor knew better than to believe that last part. He knew Imelda better than that. She was scared. Whatever the doctor said to her and whatever his wife saw when she looked at him, it scared her and she was trying to hide it. But he wasn't going to point that out to her.

To be honest, he was kind of scared too.

The pain sharpened again, pushing through the medicine in his veins and making him hiss through his teeth. Héctor's fingers tightened involuntarily around hers. It wasn't as strong as it was before he reached the doctor, before the drugs were injected into him, but it still _hurt_ so _much_. Only his current position kept him from curling into a tight ball. Once again, it took several moments for the agony to grow more distant and let his panting ease.

"I should have listened to Ernesto," he said, his voice almost a whimper.

Imelda stiffened at his words. He wasn't certain why. He couldn't seem to concentrate enough to decipher what about that sentence could cause her reaction. His mind seemed a bit muddled from the drugs and exhaustion. He was just so _tired_ and everything _hurt_.

"What are you talking about?" asked Imelda slowly.

"He tried to talk me into staying," he said, closing his eyes momentarily as the room tried to spin again. "He said I didn't look so good. I thought Ernesto just didn't want me to leave. But he could tell I was sick before I did."

He opened his eyes in time to see her expression darken. She stared off at something only she could see, something fiery and burning in her gaze. Realization, fury, hurt, and something else flashed across Imelda's face. Héctor felt even more confused by her reaction than before. Then that flickering fire died down and her expression softened as she turned her eyes back to him. The sharper emotions were replaced by something tired and strained once more.

"It's all right," murmured Imelda. She pulled his hands up to her lips and kissed them, trying to comfort him even with so much sadness in her eyes. "It's going to be all right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Despite everything… Despite the pain, nausea, and the faint fog the drugs cast over his mind… Imelda's words brought a smile to his face.

Pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the side table, only pausing a moment to stare at the needle beside it, Imelda coaxed him into drinking a little more. The cool liquid irritated his raw throat and left him coughing, but he drank it. Héctor made himself drink as much water as Imelda wanted. His wife seemed just as eager for him to get some water as the doctor was.

"You need your rest," said Imelda, reaching over to rearrange the pillows so that Héctor was lying down in relative comfort. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"No," he admitted quietly.

"Well, you need to try now," said Imelda, tucking the blanket around him. "You don't want Coco's lullaby to go to waste, do you?" Her hand drifted back to brush his hair from his forehead again. "Just try and sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I won't leave."

He caught her hand and pulled it down to rest on his chest. Héctor held it close. He didn't want to let her go.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Their reunion after so long apart was supposed to be different. Perhaps with a bit more apologizing from him and some angry glares from her, but it was supposed to end with him holding his wife in his arms. And perhaps afterwards, Imelda would pull him back to their bedroom and make up for lost time. It wasn't supposed to involve him feeling too weak and miserable to move and Imelda looking so worried. It was supposed to be a happy event.

But even if it wasn't what he'd expected or wanted, he was still with her. And he wasn't going to let her go.

"I won't leave," repeated Imelda. "I'll stay. I'll stay, Héctor." Then, almost too quiet to hear, she whispered, "Just stay with me."

Héctor tightened his grip on her briefly, a different chill than the previous ones washing over him. There it was. That unspoken fear hanging over them, the one that neither of them wished to acknowledge even as it haunted both of their minds. They wouldn't name it. They wouldn't mention it. They wouldn't consider it. But the fear couldn't be completely ignored.

But it wouldn't happen. He would be fine. He would be _fine_. Héctor might feel worse than he could ever remember, only the doctor's medicine keeping the pain at a manageable level, but he would be _fine_.

He just needed to assure Imelda of that fact. That unspoken fear would not come to pass. He couldn't do much to banish it, but he would do what he could. He didn't want Imelda to be scared for him. He might be afraid and feeling horrible, but he refused to let her worry. Not if there was anything he could say or do about it.

He would do anything for his family. He would do as she asked. He would be fine. For Imelda and Coco, he would be fine.

"I'll stay," he said, startling his wife. She clearly didn't expect him to hear her before. "I won't ever leave you. I promise."


	4. Know That I'm With You

Coco wasn't dumb. She was confused, but not dumb.

Tío Oscar brought her home, but Tío Felipe didn't come. He stayed with Mamá at Dr. Ramírez's house for a little while. And Coco knew that was wrong because her tíos were _never_ apart. It was like waking up one morning and finding the sun had turned blue and everyone started walking around on their hands.

Then Tío Felipe came home and he and Tío Oscar started whispering. They kept their distance from her, so she couldn't hear a word. But she could see their faces. Both of them looked upset, but also sad and scared. They were almost grownups and weren't supposed to be scared of anything. Except Mamá when they made her angry.

People kept coming by all morning and into the afternoon. And most of them didn't even come for shoes. They came to whisper with Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, asking quiet questions that only seemed to upset them worse. Sometimes one of her tíos would leave for a little while before coming back to tell his brother something, but they never said anything to her.

Coco didn't know what any of them were talking about or why all the grownups kept looking at her with strange expressions. But even if she didn't know what was happening, she didn't like it.

By the time it felt like the thousandth person knocked on the door, she wanted to tell whoever it was to go away and stop making her tíos upset. But when Tío Felipe opened it with a weary expression, both of the twins stiffened in a way that confused her even more.

She kind of recognized the older man and woman, but only because she didn't actually know them. She'd seen them a few times when she was in town with Mamá. But Coco never saw them up close. Mamá would always keep her distance and didn't look at either of them. And they didn't look at Mamá, which was really strange because everyone looked at Mamá because she was the prettiest person in the world. And Coco knew it was true because Papá always said so. But Mamá never looked at them and never greeted them.

Actually, Coco could almost remember a time she'd glimpsed the man when she was out with Papá. Unlike Mamá, who just ignored them and kept her distance, Papá actually steered all the way around the plaza to avoid the older man. He also made sure to keep between Coco and the stranger the whole time, as if blocking her from view. And while Mamá kept her head up and proud as she purposefully ignored either of them, Papá almost cringed the one time he spotted the man.

Coco immediately decided she didn't want these two people visiting today.

They weren't really old. They didn't have lots of wrinkles and white hair, but they were older than Mamá. And their clothes looked fancier. Not really, really, really fancy, but more like Mamá's nicer dress that she saved for church. Her favorite dress that felt extra soft and smooth to the touch. She wouldn't wear it just to visit someone to pick up new shoes.

"Mamá? Papá?" said Felipe in a strained voice, one that cracked and squeaked over the words. "What are—"

"—you doing here?" Oscar continued, his voice breaking just as badly.

Coco narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the strange grownups, wondering what her tíos were talking about. They weren't Mamá or Papá. They weren't even close, though the woman looked a little like Mamá.

"You didn't think we would hear the news?" asked the man. "Rumors spread quickly. And even if Imelda was a disrespectful, disobedient, and rebellious daughter for what she did—"

"Not that sneaking out in the middle of the night to run away and join her is much better," the woman added.

"—that man is still the papá to our grandchild," continued the man. "Regardless of the past, we are not so heartless that we wouldn't be concerned that he might be dy—"

"Don't say it," interrupted Felipe, glancing at Coco briefly even as he cringed. "Please, Papá? Just… don't say it."

Trying to look stern and drawing himself up as tall as possible, Oscar said, "Both of you, Abuelito, our tíos and tías, and even our primos made it clear that you no longer consider our sister to be part of the family when she left. You said that she and 'that _músico_ ' weren't part of our family because she chose him even when you didn't think he was good enough for her."

"And she took you at your word. Imelda didn't want anything to do with you before now," continued Felipe. "She never speaks to you. She didn't ask for your help when she started making shoes."

"She always had too much pride and stubbornness for her own good," said the woman.

"Imelda didn't ask for your help because she didn't want it or need it. Not after everything that happened. She didn't even ask us. But _we_ love her and came anyway," Oscar said firmly. "She's still our family."

"So why would you think she would want you here now?" concluded Felipe. "After all that, why now? Why is she family _now_?"

Looking frustrated with the twins, the man shook his head and said, "Because if the worst should happen, we don't want her, the two of you, or our grandchild to end up on the streets. If the rumors are even half right about his condition, she's going to end up alone and—"

"Coco," Oscar said abruptly, the newest interruption from the twins clearly frustrating both of the strangers, "why don't you go and clean up your room? That would be a big help."

She wasn't dumb. Coco knew that they just wanted her to go away so that they could talk more. Not that she understood what they were talking about currently…

Nobody told her anything. It wasn't fair. Coco's birthday was coming up soon and she would be four years old. That's practically all grown up. But everyone was treating her like a baby. She deserved to know what they were talking about, why her tíos were so upset, and why all sorts of people kept coming by to whisper to them.

Giving her tíos and the latest arrivals one final annoyed glare, Coco stomped off towards her room. Something bad was happening and no one would tell her anything? Fine. She would just wait until Mamá and Papá got home. _They_ wouldn't keep secrets from her.

* * *

Margarita shooed her three children out of the kitchen with their simple lunches, the two boys and the young girl knowing better than to get underfoot when their papá had a patient. Their eldest, Rodrigo, would keep an eye on his siblings. And that would let her focus on helping Jorge.

She wasn't a doctor. Not like Jorge. But taking care of people came naturally to her and she'd learned a lot in her fourteen years of marriage to him. She knew that someone who spent all night vomiting needed water and simple foods that would be easy on the stomach. And she knew that a worried family member would need something to sustain her. That was why Margarita found herself preparing both a simple broth and a more hearty stew.

But even as she poured out food into the two bowls, Margarita worried that it was a futile effort. Jorge's expression and a few quiet conversations away from the spare room confirmed her suspicions about Señor Héctor Rivera's prognosis. The man's condition was serious when he arrived and had only grown worse in the hours since. And Jorge didn't behave as if he believed that he would recover.

Héctor's treatment wouldn't heal him. She could see that. It would only ease the symptoms.

And if Margarita and her husband were right, then it was only a matter of time until Imelda Rivera realized the same thing. It was only a matter of time until she accepted what was happening. And it would break the younger woman's heart.

Margarita didn't really know Imelda Rivera that well, but Santa Cecilia wasn't that large of a town. Everyone at least recognized each other vaguely. They also loved gossip and stories to share. And the Rivera family, in their lovely house near the river banks at the nicer end of Santa Cecilia, were quite well off and disowning their daughter for choosing to marry a musician caused quite a stir through the whole town. Imelda loved the orphan _músico_ with all her heart, giving Héctor her name and eventually a child. Their little family was close-knit and full of love. Even her brothers, who kept sending one or the other to the house to ask for updates on the man's condition, clearly cared about Héctor. And losing him would…

Setting both bowls on a tray, Margarita carried them towards the spare bedroom. But when she saw her husband inside, she paused at the doorway. He'd returned with an emptied bucket that he set beside the bed and was currently crouched over the patient.

"I'm giving you a higher dose this time," said Jorge, inserting the needle into his patient. "It might make it harder for you to focus, but the pain should be better for a while. And once this dose takes effect, maybe you can finally get some rest."

" _Gracias_ ," Héctor hissed, his voice strained and his breathing labored.

Imelda's hand briefly brushed against the side of his face, the gesture filled with so much love and gentle comfort. She'd been there all the day, helping as much as she could. She kept pushing him to drink as much water as possible even when his stomach rejected it, helped him sit up when necessary, and cleaned up her sweat-soaked and exhausted husband. But mostly she kept him company and reassured him. But she couldn't hide the sadness in her eyes. Nor the tiny hint of fear as she tried to deny and ignore any possibility other than him recovering.

Jorge frowned, studying Héctor's expression carefully. He clearly saw something he didn't like.

"Are you having trouble breathing, Señor?"

"Just," Héctor said slowly, "can't seem… to catch… my breath."

From his expression, Jorge didn't think that was a good sign. Whispering a quiet request to Imelda, the two of them carefully propped up the patient with pillows until they found an angle that let him breathe a little easier. Hopefully he would improve further once the morphine kicked back in again.

"At least you have stopped trying to throw up for the last half hour," said Imelda, pushing back his hair gently. "That has to be easier on you."

Smiling weakly, Héctor said, " _Sí_. Because there's… nothing _left_."

Taking that as her cue, Margarita stepped in and said, "Well, you may have to risk it. I have food for both of you." Setting the tray on the bedside table, she said, "The broth is for Señor Rivera. It should help. He needs food to keep his strength up and it should help with the dehydration as well. And it should be gentle on his stomach."

" _Gracias_ , Señora Ramírez," said Imelda. Ignoring her own food for the moment, she picked up his bowl and brought it over to Héctor. "We appreciate this.

" _De nada_."

Margarita met her husband's eyes briefly before they slipped back out, giving the young couple some privacy. As they closed the door, Jorge leaned tiredly against the wall.

"It _is_ arsenic," he said quietly. "I'm almost certain of it. When I burned some of his stomach contents, the flames smelled briefly like garlic. It's almost certainly arsenic poisoning. I would be willing to give sworn testimony of that and I know that when they test it further, the results will prove me right."

"He's not going to recover from this, is he?" asked Margarita. "And you told his wife?"

Closing his eyes and shaking his head tiredly, he said, "I tried. But Señora Rivera can be… difficult. She refuses to consider it. As if she can force it _not_ to be arsenic poisoning by sheer will." Looking at Margarita, Jorge added, "He's getting worse. The spirit may be willing, but the body is weakening. Even if by some miracle he survives this, it's destroying his organs. He won't have much of a quality of life and will remain sickly and weak before still ending up in an early grave. But honestly… I doubt he'll survive until nightfall."

Margarita glanced over her shoulder, staring sadly at the closed door. That was what she had been afraid of.

That poor man…

That poor woman…

And their poor daughter…

* * *

Imelda reached over to the bedside table, pouring a little more water from the pitcher. As the sky grew red from the approaching sunset that she could glimpse out the window, she couldn't deny that it had been a long day. And it left her mind turbulent.

She didn't want to consider the idea that Héctor had been poisoned. Especially not by Ernesto. It chilled her to the bone and horrified her in ways that she couldn't describe. But between Dr. Ramírez's firm belief and Héctor's innocent statement that Ernesto didn't want him to leave, Imelda couldn't ignore the possibility.

But she couldn't understand _why_. Why would Ernesto want to harm Héctor? The man might be self-centered, egotistical, and with far too much influence on her husband, but Imelda knew that Ernesto's friendship with Héctor was real. She'd seen them both together and seen too much to deny it. She even knew that Ernesto would even keep Héctor safe should anything happen while traveling. They were the closest thing that the two orphans had to family. Even as she hated Ernesto for taking her husband away on that idiotic tour, Imelda never doubted his loyalty and friendship with Héctor.

So why would the man poison Héctor? _Why_? Because he wanted to come home? That didn't seem like a good enough reason for him to turn against his best friend.

It didn't make sense, so she refused to let it be true. Ernesto _didn't_ poison Héctor's drink. And since he didn't, that meant it _wasn't_ arsenic poisoning and the doctor was wrong. Héctor was just sick. And since she refused to consider that it was poison, that meant he would get over his illness. He _would_ get better. Imelda refused to allow any other possibility.

As long as she didn't think about it, as long as she didn't give any other option a chance to exist, then everything would be fine.

Héctor would be fine.

If she told herself enough times that he wasn't poisoned by Ernesto for no reason, that the doctor was wrong about it being caused by arsenic, and that Héctor would be fine, then she would believe it was true. It _would_ be true.

But she could admit that he didn't seem to be doing that well at the moment. The broth didn't help much. He managed a few sips at a time, taking it slow so his stomach didn't reject the food. But Héctor had grown weaker over the course of the day. His clammy skin had gained an almost ashen tone, making the dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes stand out more. Chills shook his body at random and his fingers dug into the cloth covering his stomach, never completely relaxing just like the pain never completely vanished. His eyes were glassy when he managed to keep them open, either from the pain or the drugs keeping the worst at bay. And even with the pillows propping him up to make it easier for him, his breathing remained fast, strained, and an increasing struggle.

But he would be fine. He would be _fine_. Yes, he was exhausted, in pain, and short of breath even as he lay perfectly still, but they could get past this. In a day or two, they would take him home and everything would be fine.

"Héctor," she coaxed gently. "You need to drink some more water."

He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze dully. Imelda pushed down the way her insides seemed to squirm at the sight. Her husband shouldn't be this still, this listless, and this quiet. He was energy, movement, music, and life. This was all wrong.

But he would be _fine_.

He promised.

"I can't," said Héctor, his voice faint and breathless. " _Lo siento_."

Bringing the cup over to his face, Imelda said, "Come on. You heard the doctor. You need to keep drinking if you want to get better."

"I _can't_."

His voice cracking over the words made her freeze. The tone felt like a stab to her heart. It was too tired, too weak, and too fragile. He sounded broken. Broken, on the brink of desperate tears, and with a hint of despair. It made her really look, taking in his face properly.

His lips, dry and cracked, didn't hold his earlier comforting and reassuring smile. His eyes were dull and empty. Lifeless. Hopeless. It was like something vital in him was fading away. She could see fear in his expression, behind the exhaustion and pain that seemed to consume her husband. But it was more than him being afraid.

Héctor looked like he was giving up.

The two small words contained far too much information. He wasn't just saying that he couldn't drink any more water. His voice was too tired, cracking from hopelessness, and yet apologetic. It was more than not being able to manage any more water. Héctor was saying he couldn't take any more. He was saying that he couldn't handle the pain, misery, and sickness that had plagued him all day and kept growing worse with no sign of relief. He was saying that he couldn't get better, no matter how much water that he tried to drink. He was saying he couldn't hold on.

And that terrified her. Imelda shivered involuntarily at the broken look on her husband's face. It was wrong. It was completely wrong and reminded her too much of that dark and haunting fear that kept whispering at the back of her mind. The new fear, the one that replaced the worry that he wouldn't want to come home and now made her guilty to even remember. A fear of a more permanent separation. A fear that she _refused_ to allow to manifest.

He would be fine. Everything would be _fine_.

Please don't let this happen. Please.

Was this her punishment for doubting him, even for a moment and only in her own mind? Was this her punishment for letting her frustrations with the increasingly-long tour suggest the idea that Héctor would ever choose music and fame over his family? Was this her punishment for wondering _what if_?

No. Imelda refused to accept it.

Héctor would be fine. He was sick, but he would get better. They couldn't give up.

"You _can_ ," she said, fear becoming anger at the situation and giving her words a sharper edge than she intended. "You _must_."

His eyes closed briefly, his fast and unsteady breathing growing even less steady as he shivered. When he managed to look at her again, Héctor was blinking rapidly. As if trying to fight back tears of pain, misery, and despair.

"Imelda," said Héctor. "I _want_ to… I'm just…"

She grabbed his hand, squeezing firmly. She met his eyes, stubborn and unbending. Imelda would make sure that he didn't give up. She would make sure that he got better. She would do whatever it took to make things right.

"Héctor," she said, her tone leaving no room for questions or arguments. "You _will_ drink the water and you _will_ get better. Do you hear me?" Imelda squeezed his hand again. "I won't let you just give up."

He managed to take a few small sips of water as she pressed the cup to his mouth again, but the exhaustion and broken expression hadn't faded. And that left a tightness in her throat and a pain in her chest, sensations that she needed to banish just as much as the look of surrender in his eyes.

"I know you are sick. I know you're tired and hurting. I know it's hard, Héctor," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "But you have to try. You have to hold on even if it's hard."

Imelda leaned over and kissed his brow. His skin was clammy to the touch, but the tiny sound that came from him sounded relieved rather than pained. That made the small gesture worth it.

"Please, Héctor," she whispered. "You have to keep trying until you're better. If you love me, if you love _Coco_ , then you won't give up. If you love us, you have to keep going and hold on."

Even as she spoke the words, Imelda knew it was unfair to say that to him. But it did what she wanted. His eyes, dulled by drugs, pain, and fear, grew brighter and more focused. She saw his resolve strengthen. No matter how weak and tired that he might feel, she could see that Héctor would resist it.

For his family, he would hold on. Those dark fears about what might be happening to him, of how he might leave her in a far more permanent manner would not come to pass. Héctor loved his family too much to hurt them. This time when she asked him to stay, he would. Imelda believed that with all her soul.

Her eyes briefly flickered towards the window, the sky changing colors as the sun continued towards the horizon. It was growing late. She'd been there all the day, watching her husband steadily grow worse. But they must have hit the point where things would finally turn around. There had to be a limit. His sickness would have to ease up soon. He just needed to keep going a little longer.

He would be all right. He would get better. This would pass. He would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Señora Imelda "You Go Home My Way Or No Way" Rivera does what she can to encourage Héctor while doing her absolute best to remain in denial of the very idea that he won't get better. Meanwhile everyone else is pretty much writing him off as a lost cause. The poor guy is having a very bad day.


	5. I'm Nodding and I'm Yes-ing

"We have to do something," said Felipe, keeping his voice down to avoid attracting Coco's attention. "This… This is too much."

Oscar couldn't agree more. Even just having their parents show up was overwhelming, especially since they'd spent the last few years pretending that Imelda didn't exist. Neither of the twins were expecting or ready to deal with them. Mamá and Papá may have been honest in their decision to reappear in their daughter's life and help during this really tough time period. They weren't heartless. But Oscar and Felipe knew that their support and help would come with "I told you so," judgment, and a refusal to admit that they were wrong. Imelda didn't need that right now. So as much as the twins loved their parents, they were glad that they managed to get Mamá and Papá to go home.

But the rest was just as stressful. It felt like half of Santa Cecilia wandered by over the course of the day. Enough people saw Héctor's arrival, stumbling off the train and looking like death warmed over, that the news spread everywhere within a couple hours. Gossip spread like wildfire and evolved into crazy stories that everyone wanted to hear more about. They demanded answers and neither of the fifteen-year-olds could provide them.

They knew a little. Felipe told him what the doctor said. His theories about arsenic poisoning. His theories about Ernesto poisoning Héctor. Or to put simply, the doctor's belief that Ernesto tried to kill him. Oscar could barely wrap his mind around it. Ernesto and Héctor were brothers in all but blood. It seemed wrong to Oscar. It would be like Felipe betraying him. It was crazy.

But Dr. Ramírez never changed his theory whenever one of the twins went to check on things over the course of the day. And he never said that Héctor was doing any better. In fact, his condition was apparently deteriorating.

"Imelda… She isn't… You know she won't want to admit it," continued Felipe.

"Would you?" Oscar asked, glancing back over at Coco.

The little girl wasn't completely oblivious to the mood that hung over the household, but it wasn't enough for her to understand. She knew they were worried about something, but she didn't know _why_. At the moment, Coco was on the floor with her doll, drawing on some scrap paper. The girl hadn't asked many questions since she saw her papá, but they knew she was curious. Coco was just bright enough to wait until the mood improved. Or maybe she was just waiting for her parents.

But they couldn't keep Coco in the dark forever. Just like Imelda couldn't deny the truth forever.

"We have to do something," repeated Felipe. "Everything can't go on like this. I know Imelda is normally in charge, but—"

"—she _needs_ us," Oscar said, nodding. "We… we have to be—"

"—strong. We have to be—"

"—sturdy."

"Supportive."

"Dependable."

"We have to be… Imelda and Coco might need a man around the house after… everything. And we—"

"—almost qualify," Oscar said dryly. "You know. If you combine us together."

They exchanged brief wry grins. They weren't quite adults, though they were getting closer. But mostly they were waiting for their growth spurt to finally hit. It was taking forever. It would be a lot easier to be taken seriously if they weren't still shorter than Imelda. Papá always claimed it took him forever to start growing and he ended up fairly tall, so they both had hope. But at least being short and looking young kept their sister from getting _too_ mad at them sometimes.

Their brief moment of amusement didn't last long. Keeping a positive mood had been a challenge all day. The knowledge of what was happening to Héctor made it nearly impossible.

Shaking his head tiredly, Felipe said, "What are we going to do?"

"Imelda has been there all day," Oscar said slowly, working out his plan as he went along. "She needs a break. She'll drive herself crazy otherwise. How about you go trade places and send her home. Coco needs someone to tuck her in and it would be better if it was her mamá."

"Why do you get to stay here?" asked Felipe quietly.

"Because I'm going to talk to her when she gets here."

Oscar didn't have to specify further. They both knew what he would talk to her about. And it was a conversation none of them wanted to have. His brother stared for a moment before slowly nodding. As Felipe headed to the door and out into the falling darkness, Oscar walked over to the young girl.

"What are you doing, Coco?" he asked gently.

"Drawing a picture for Papá," said the child.

Ignoring the brief tightness in his chest, Oscar said, "That's a very nice idea. But it's getting late and it's dark outside. We need to get you ready for bed."

"But… Mamá and Papá aren't back yet," said Coco.

"I know. But your Tío Felipe went back to Dr. Ramírez's house to get your Mamá Imelda. She'll be back soon. But you're a big girl and can start getting ready now, right? Your mamá is going to need your help for a while."

Oscar's words had an immediate effect on her. Adopting a seriousness that made her resemble Imelda, Coco appeared to accept the heavy burden of her responsibility. Gathering up everything, she then scurried off to her room to change clothes.

* * *

Imelda held his hand, firm, and yet gentle. Héctor wasn't asleep. Not exactly. Yes, his eyes were closed and his body limp. But his breathing was too strained and fast, his face was too tense when the pain washed over him, and his fingers kept twitching in her grip. As if he needed to remind himself of her presence. It wasn't true sleep, but it was as close to proper rest as he'd managed all day. And he desperately needed it.

He hadn't improved. Not even slightly. But he was holding on. He hadn't given up. And for now, that would be enough.

As another chill sent a shiver racing across his body, Héctor's eyes opened a crack. They didn't focus on anything, but she could see the candlelight reflecting off them. The room was dimmer than before, lit only by the single candle that Señora Ramírez brought in with her suggestion that they both needed sleep. Even in his current state, he clearly noticed the change. Fragile and wavering, he slowly started humming the song from before. The one meant for their daughter.

"Easy, Héctor," she murmured. "You already sang to Coco. She already had her song. Just rest." She brushed back his hair from his face. "Just rest, Héctor."

His breathing hitched, cutting off the quiet song. Héctor flinched and weakly tried to curl against the pain. Imelda squeezed his hand and hummed a few lines of "La Llorona," trying to comfort him with the familiar tune. Music held such a strong influence on her husband. It was how he expressed himself. It was how he shared his love. It held a powerful sway over his mind and his heart. She knew without having to think about it that music would reach him even through this sickness and pain. She kept the quiet song going until the worst of it seemed to pass again.

"I just… want to… go home," mumbled Héctor between his struggles to catch his breath. "Need… the way home…"

"It's all right, Héctor. You're here. You're here with us," she said. "It isn't our house, but you're home."

His head shifting slightly on the pillow, Héctor mumbled, "Home… Imelda… Coco…"

"I'm here. I'm here, Héctor." She kept up the quiet assurance even though it was clear that he couldn't hear Imelda any longer. "Just rest. You need to rest."

" _Lo siento… Lo siento_ …"

"It's all right," she soothed, brushing back his sweat-soaked hair from where it stuck to his forehead. "It's going to be all right."

"Stop the… train… Everything keeps… moving…"

An icy coldness settling in Imelda's stomach, she said, "Nothing's moving. There's no train. You're at Dr. Ramírez's home."

He shivered, a quiet whimper slipping out. Héctor's eyes moved back and forth, unfocused and unseeing. The confusion and lack of awareness had come on so suddenly. It made her chest ache at the sight.

"Do you… hate me, Ernesto?" mumbled Héctor, causing Imelda to stiffen. "Don't want… you to… hate me…" Another shudder shook his body. "It hurts… I just… want to… go home."

Ernesto didn't poison him. Ernesto didn't do it. He didn't poison Héctor because he tried to go home. It didn't happen. Imelda _refused_ to accept it, no matter what she was hearing. Because accepting that would mean accepting far worse implications.

So she ignored the words. She ignored the dark fears gnawing at the back of her mind. She ignored the possibilities. Instead, she brought the cup back to his mouth and trickled a little water into his mouth, taking care not to choke him. He couldn't drink much and she was forced to pull the cup away after a moment.

He'd also barely drank anything the last few times she tried.

"Are we… still friends… Ernesto?" Héctor shuddered, his eyes clenching tight and his ragged breathing stuttering. His rough voice almost whimpering, he said, " _Lo siento_ … Make it stop…"

Her throat tightened at his words. Imelda leaned over and lightly kissed his brow. She _hated_ how sick her husband was. She hated what this was doing to him.

But he was holding on. Héctor hadn't given up and neither would she. He was going to be all right. No matter what Dr. Ramírez believed, Héctor would be fine. The doctor didn't know everything. They didn't need… what the man suggested almost an hour ago in his solemn and regretful tone. They didn't need it because Héctor would be _fine_.

It wasn't poison. And it wasn't even a sickness like the Spanish Flu from a few years ago when Coco was just a baby, which swept through some of the surrounding towns while merely lightly touching Santa Cecilia and taking only a few people by some miracle. This was different because Héctor would get better. He just needed some rest.

"Imelda?"

She glanced towards the door, startled by the unexpected interruption. Felipe stood there, the candlelight causing shadows to dance across his face. He shifted uneasily, barely able to meet her eyes.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

Taking a step forward, Felipe said, "It's late. Maybe you should go home for a little while and I'll stay with him."

She closed her eyes briefly. He wasn't wrong about the hour. Everything past the window was pitch black. She'd been there all day and night had truly fallen. And yet...

"I can't leave him," she said quietly, looking back down at Héctor.

She couldn't leave. She promised to stay with him. As long as he held on and stayed, then she would stay with him. She couldn't leave him to face the sickness, the pain, and the dark and frightening possibility that she refused to acknowledge. What if he grew worse while she wasn't by his bedside? What if something happened? What if…

"Imelda." Felipe placed a hand on her shoulder gently, giving her the odd impression that he was trying to act like the _older_ sibling for once. "I know that you want to stay with him. But Coco needs her mamá. Me and Oscar aren't enough. She needs to see you. Please go home. Tuck Coco into bed and give her a kiss. Get some fresh air on the way there and stretch your legs. It'll do both of you some good."

Coco. Imelda's chest ached for a new reason. She needed to stay with Héctor, but their daughter needed her. The woman felt torn. As much as she may wish it, she couldn't be in two places at once. And as difficult as it might seem, there was really only one choice. It just hurt.

"I'll stay with him," continued Felipe. "He won't be alone."

She closed her eyes momentarily again, gathering up all her willpower to do what she must. Then she placed her hand on her husband's face.

"Héctor," she called.

Blinking blearily, Héctor's eyes managed to find her. And for just a moment, the fog across his eyes seemed to lift. The pain, the drugs, and the confusion from the sickness that tried to steal him away… He managed to look past it and see _her_ again.

"'Melda?" slurred Héctor weakly.

Cupping his face, she said, "I have to check on Coco."

"Coco?"

"I won't be long. And Felipe is going to stay with you while I take care of our daughter," she assured, still holding his gaze for as long as his eyes remained relatively clear. "You're going to be all right with him. It won't be for long, Héctor. I'll be back soon."

His head leaned into her hand, though it seemed more like it was lolling limply rather than any purposeful movement. But he closed his eyes and seemed to draw comfort from the contact. His unsteady and strained breathing even slowed for a moment.

"Just try and rest, Héctor," she said, her thumb brushing along his cheek. "Save your strength. Rest and I'll be back before you know it."

"Mm-hmm," murmured Héctor.

His eyes fluttered open briefly as she pulled her hand away from his clammy skin. But the cloudy and confused haze had returned, leaving his gaze unfocused and distant once more. His breathing slipped back into the earlier labored and erratic pattern as before, exhausted and pained. The moment of relative clarity and peace had passed.

Imelda slowly climbed out of her chair and moved towards the doorway. Each step away felt like tiny stabs to her heart. This felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal. But her responsibility as a mother outweighed her role as his wife. She wanted to stay, but she had to go.

* * *

Felipe didn't like any part of this. He didn't like the pitying looks from Dr. Ramírez upon his arrival nor the request to get Imelda out of the room, the doctor realizing that it was the only way to do something important without her stubborn denial getting in the way. He didn't like seeing who Dr. Ramírez invited over and for what purpose. Felipe didn't like the smell of sickness that hit as soon as he stepped in. He didn't like the pained and weary expression on Héctor's face, barely conscious and visibly struggling against whatever force was swallowing him up. And he absolutely hated the desperate and determined expression in Imelda's eyes, pushing back the hints of anger, worry, and fear that didn't belong there.

Everything about the situation was awful.

He didn't take the empty seat once Imelda left. Not immediately. Felipe backed up into the corner of the room, trying to avoid hearing the struggling gasps and whimpers of pain. He couldn't deny what his senses were telling him was happening. Not like Imelda did, refusing any knowledge of it.

"It sounds like he needs another dose," said Dr. Ramírez, stepping into the room with his leather bag of medical apparatus.

The man's eyes briefly moved along Héctor's suffering figure as he took in the scene. With a grave look on his face, the doctor headed for where the nearly-empty bottle of morphine still rested on the bedside table. Following right behind him was the man that Felipe saw earlier. The one who could only have one purpose coming there so late in the evening.

"Padre Fernando," Felipe greeted solemnly.

The priest nodded in acknowledgment, but most of his attention was on the patient in the bed. Imelda may be bound and determined to deny the possibility, but the rest of them couldn't avoid considering it. They knew what was clearly happening to Héctor.

So while Imelda was away, Padre Fernando would be performing last rites.

* * *

Coco was already in her nightgown, holding her doll, and curled under a blanket by the time her bedroom door opened. Rather than the sliver of light from the next room that came through the crack and kept away the nightmares, the door swung completely opened and made it bright enough for her to see who it was. The girl smiled as Mamá walked in. She missed her. Mamá had been gone all day, but at least she was back in time to tuck her in.

But Coco noticed that Mamá wasn't happy. Her smile didn't look happy. It seemed tired, wan, and a little sad. She was acting weird like the rest of the grownups.

"Mamá?" said Coco quietly.

Tucking the blanket around the girl more firmly, Mamá said, " _Shh_ … Settle down, _míja_. It's late. Time to go to sleep."

"Mamá?" repeated Coco firmly. "Is Papá feeling better? Can he come home soon?"

When was he coming home? She felt like she'd asked that question a hundred times. Sometimes Mamá would pull out the latest letter and read what he told them. Sometimes she would shake her head and say that her Tío Ernesto wanted Papá to stay a little longer, but it would be soon. Sometimes Mamá would tell her that she wasn't certain, but it couldn't be too much longer.

But that was different. That was when Papá was far away, playing music for people in other cities and towns because some little girls weren't lucky enough to have papás who could play guitars and sing. He wasn't far away now, though. He was sick, but he was closer. He was in Santa Cecilia. It couldn't be long before he felt better and could come home. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. No more than that.

But Mamá didn't immediately assure her that he would be back home in the morning. Breathing a deep sigh, the woman sat on the edge of the bed. She then reached over and brushed back Coco's hair.

"Not yet," she said, her voice heavy and tired. "He's very, very sick."

"When will he get better?"

"I… I don't know." Mamá spoke softly, staring down at her hands instead of looking at her daughter. "Your papá… He…"

She closed her eyes and shook her head, her voice trailing off into silence. Coco tightened her grip on her doll, something about her Mamá's sadness feeding into a vague fear that had been sparked by everyone else acting weird. She didn't know what she was scared of exactly, but it was there the same way that cracking the door to let in a little light didn't completely get rid of the shadows under her bed. This wasn't right. Mamá was supposed to make things better. She was supposed to have all the answers. She was _Mamá_.

But Mamá was upset. And she wasn't saying anything.

Something was wrong. Papá was sick. Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe kept ending up in separate places. Mamá was sad, tired, and not fixing the problem. Everything that Coco knew about the world had turned upside down.

Sitting up and crawling along the bed until she pulled herself into Mamá's lap, Coco asked, "What's wrong? Everyone keeps whispering and acting weird. Why won't anyone tell me anything? Why are you so sad?" When Mamá didn't answer, Coco wrapped her arms around her and buried her face into the woman's dress. "Can I help?"

"Oh, _míja_ ," she murmured. One hand landed on the back of her daughter's head and the other went to her upper back, hugging her close. "I'm sad because your papá doesn't feel good. He feels very bad and has felt bad all day. That's why everyone has been acting strange. We're worried that… that he won't feel better soon. He's very sick and we want him to feel better, but we're worried that he'll keep feeling bad." Mamá ran her fingers through her hair. "He's very, very sick, Coco. Sicker than you can imagine."

Her fingers digging into her Mamá's dress as she returned the hug, Coco said, "But you'll help him. You and Dr. Ramírez."

"We'll _try_." She took a shaking breath before loosening her hug. Looking the girl in the eyes and blinking her shining eyes, Mamá said, "You know that your papá loves you very much. He loves both of us. And he would give anything to be here, tucking you into bed. So while you're sleeping, I'm going to go back and take care of him. I want him to feel better so he can come home."

Lifting her up, Mamá moved her back towards the pillow and tucked Coco back in. The girl was fighting back a yawn as Mamá kissed the top of her head. Just like always, she left the bedroom door open a crack so that light from the rest of house could slip in and keep the darkness at bay. Coco listened to the soft footsteps as they moved away, her eyes drooping before she heard Mamá reach the front door.

* * *

Imelda took a deep breath as she stepped back outside, letting the cool and clean evening air fill her lungs. There was no scent of sweat, blood, and sickness flooding her nose and coating her mouth. It wasn't completely quiet, but the distant sound of insects and indistinct voices floating down from open windows was different than strained panting and gasps of pain. Compared to the warm and stuffy room that she spent the whole day in, the slight breeze that brushed against her face and stirred her braided hair lightly made her head feel calm and clear. She allowed herself to enjoy the sensation for a moment, pausing right outside her home.

It felt reassuring, grounding her and renewing her after so much stress and emotional exhaustion. She couldn't even describe how good it felt or how much she needed it.

But as the moment passed and she prepared to head back across town, unconcerned about the hour or the darkness, Oscar abruptly said, "You know that Héctor… isn't going to get better, don't you?"

His words made her pause, unable to ignore them or pretend that she misheard. She turned around slowly, looking back towards the house. Oscar stood in front of the door, arms wrapped tightly around himself and his eyes firmly locked on the ground. He shivered and kept blinking to prevent tears. And there seemed to be a heavy and invisible weight draped across his shoulders, leaving Oscar struggling to bear it regardless. Her little brother looked both too old and far too young.

"He's not going to get better, Imelda," repeated Oscar, hugging himself tightly. "Felipe told me. Dr. Ramírez said it was arsenic poisoning and that Ernesto is probably responsible. That's… He's not going to recover."

"You don't know that," she whispered. "He could be fine."

Rubbing his arms and still refusing to look at her, Oscar said, "You don't believe that. Not really. No one does." He shook his head tiredly. "Do you know how many people came by today, offering condolences and looking for gossip? Everyone knows. They know that he's sick. They know how bad it is. Even Mamá and Papá came by, saying that they want to help their daughter and grandchild should the worst happen. They'd even take me and Felipe back after we ran away from them to help you."

Anger briefly flared up at the mention of their parents. They hadn't spoken since Papá gave her that ultimatum: give up that orphan musician with nothing to offer a young _señorita_ like her or she would no longer be welcome in the family. Her parents clearly didn't expect her to choose Héctor. What daughter would ever go against her family? Especially for someone with no prospects and no family to support him? Not a single other person in Santa Cecilia would have made that choice because family always comes first and it was unthinkable to go against something that all her relatives wanted. Imelda would never deny how hard it was, but she knew that she loved Héctor too much to ever want a life with another man and they were the ones who forced her to make the choice when she would have preferred to have him _and_ the rest of her family.

They didn't expect her to choose Héctor, but they kept their threat. Not a single kind word or moment of contact. Her brothers would seek her out afterwards, coming to visit when they slipped away from the rest of the family. But her parents, her tíos and tías, Abuelito, and everyone else refused to acknowledge her, Héctor, and later their daughter. Even if she should see one of them in public, not a single word or nod of greeting from those that she loved so dearly. She had to give up something precious to get what she wanted and they ensured that she didn't forget it. They gave her nothing. Not even during the months where she fought to start her business while her husband was touring. They did nothing until now. And that filled Imelda with anger.

She tried to cling to that anger, to the fire and fury that tried to burn under her skin. She tried to cling to it because it hurt less than the rest of what Oscar was saying. But the anger slipped through her fingers, extinguishing as quickly as it had flared up and leaving her with only fear and dread.

"Then everyone is wrong. He'll get better. He _will_ ," said Imelda, struggling to keep her voice down. She _refused_ to yell at her brother in the street, no matter how empty it currently seemed. "He's sick, but Héctor will be fine."

"No, he won't. He _won't_ be fine," Oscar snapped, for once refusing to back down. She was briefly thankful that he waited to have this confrontation outside so that Coco wouldn't overhear. "He's not getting better. He's getting worse. He won't get better. We hate it, but Héctor will _never_ get better from this."

"Stop saying that," shouted Imelda, losing the fight to keep her voice quiet.

"Then stop lying to yourself!" he yelled back. Then, his voice dropping down and growing more apologetic, he continued, "You can't ignore it and… and keep telling the doctor that he's wrong. Or that me and Felipe are wrong. Or that everyone else is wrong. You can't pretend this isn't happening. He isn't getting any better and there's… nothing we can do about it. It isn't right. It isn't fair." He closed his eyes, something wet slipping past his glasses. His voice tightening, he said, " _Lo siento_. He doesn't deserve this. And neither do you, Imelda. But… he's dying. Héctor is dying."

Imelda stiffened involuntarily, her throat tightening and something squeezing in her chest. There it was. The word that she'd been avoiding. She didn't say it, didn't think it, and didn't hear it. She didn't let the word exist any more than she allowed the possibility to exist. He wasn't dying. He wasn't. He _wasn't_.

But now the concept was out in the open. The shadowy and nameless fear had moved into view, forcing her to acknowledge its true nature.

Oscar's expression twisted with regret as he made his statement, his voice trailing off on those final dooming words. But he didn't take any of them back. Even as he opened his eyes again and finally looked at her, worried and afraid, Oscar didn't take back his words. This conversation seemed to age him and the weight on his shoulders appeared to be even heavier than before. It was clearly hurting him as much as it was her. But he stood by what he said.

Imelda pushed back against the idea, trying to hold it at bay. He was wrong. The doctor was wrong. Everyone was wrong. She wouldn't let it happen. Héctor would be _fine_. She told herself that, repeating the words in her mind in an attempt to block out what her brother had said. But Imelda couldn't seem to banish the tightness in her throat or the ache in her chest. Her body was rigid, like a string overtightened. Something was bound to snap and break.

"I'm sorry," Oscar said quietly. His gaze dropped back to the ground as he rubbed his arms. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear. It isn't fair for anyone. But that's the truth. He's dying…"

"We don't know that." Her voice sounded funny in her ears: small, dull, and disconnected, as if coming over a long distance. Imelda continued, "Not for certain."

"We talked to Dr. Ramírez at different points during the day," said Oscar quietly. "He… I don't think he expected Héctor to make it this long. I think…"

When her brother trailed off, looking uncomfortably like he wanted Felipe to continue his sentence, Imelda asked numbly, "What? What do you think?"

"I think that the only reason that Héctor is still holding on despite everything… is because of you."

Imelda couldn't prevent the small involuntary step back, too surprised by his words. He hadn't been there. No one was in the room to hear her plead with her husband, to beg him to hold on. No one heard her unfair demand that she immediately regretted, telling him to stay if he truly loved her and Coco. Oscar didn't know what she did. And yet it sounded like he'd predicted her actions anyway.

"He's holding on for you and Coco. He's dying and he won't get better, but I think he's trying to stay for his family. He would do _anything_ for you," continued Oscar. He wiped away some of the wetness from his cheek, knocking his glasses slightly askew. "As long as you act like he'll be fine, Héctor will try his best to _be_ fine. But he _can't_ get better. He'll just keep getting worse and worse. He'll just… remain. Not dying yet, but tired and in pain. Because he's trying to stay for you."

He was wrong. Her brother was wrong. Imelda clenched her teeth, her breathing coming a little faster. Yes, Héctor was exhausted and hurting, but he wasn't dying. And his suffering wasn't her fault. No matter what she told him to keep Héctor from giving up, she wasn't responsible for… for trapping him.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, her voice tight. "That we give up on him?"

"I don't even _know_. I hate this and I know you hate it too, but you need to accept the truth instead of refusing to consider it," said Oscar softly. "You're hurting yourself _and_ him. And until you stop trying to force the impossible, Héctor is going to keep suffering."

He shivered, his arms still wrapped around his body. Her little brother was too young to look so old and weary.

"He's going to die no matter what we do," Oscar said. "Nothing will change that. All that might change is how long it'll take and how much it'll hurt him first." He met Imelda's eyes, his arms finally dropping to his sides. "Me and Felipe… We don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to say. Just… don't make him feel… Don't blame him. Or yourself."

Straightening her spine and stiffening her shoulders, Imelda said firmly, "Nothing is for certain. There's still a chance. And I will _not_ give up on Héctor. _Never_." Turning around, she added, "Go back inside, Oscar. Coco shouldn't be left alone."

Without another word, she marched off into the night. She needed to get back. She couldn't leave Héctor alone any longer. Imelda promised not to leave and she'd already broke that promise by coming to check on Coco. She needed to get back to him.

He would be fine. Héctor would be _fine_. He wasn't dying. That wouldn't happen. She wouldn't let it happen. He would get better.

With every step, Imelda tried to stomp the doubts and dark fears out of existence. It was harder than before.

She wouldn't lose him.

She _couldn't_ lose Héctor. The very idea made her eyes burn and made it hard to breathe. She just got him back. She couldn't lose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact. The Spanish Flu happened in 1918 and pretty much hit everywhere on the globe. Even isolated locations like tiny islands in the Pacific Ocean and villages in Alaska. And it did some real damage, killing a lot of people. Especially young and healthy adults rather than the normal targets of the elderly and children. So it made sense to at least reference the event. 
> 
> That was a rough chapter in some ways. Lots of difficult conversations. And the story is not quite over yet. If I have my plan worked out correctly, there is a decent chance of tears soon.


	6. Though I Have To Say Goodbye

Felipe listened to the rapid and shallow breathing, thankful that the sounds of pain had died down after Dr. Ramírez gave the patient his latest injection. He wasn't certain if Héctor was awake or asleep, but he seemed slightly more at ease. Perhaps the doctor gave him a larger dose.

They were alone for the moment. Padre Fernando had concluded his business and left, Héctor barely conscious of his presence through the entire process. And after instructing Felipe to get him should anything happen, Dr. Ramírez and his family withdrew to the rest of the house. They would probably retire to their beds soon. So for now, there was only him and his slowly-dying brother-in-law.

Felipe shivered slightly in the chair, though the cause certainly wasn't the temperature in the room. No one wanted to say it, but he knew what this was. He was sitting with the deathly ill, waiting for the end. He was keeping vigil for Héctor.

His breath shaking, Héctor whimpered, "Im… el… da…?"

"She'll be back soon," Felipe assured. "She's with Coco."

He didn't think that Héctor could actually understand what he was saying to the man anymore. He never reacted or responded to what Felipe said. He just kept quietly calling for his family, still trying to reach them during his worsening illness.

But Felipe couldn't help trying to reassure his brother-in-law, even if the words never truly reached the man. It was the only thing that he could think to do.

"Not much longer," Felipe said quietly. "She'll be here."

"Co… co…"

His eyes never opened, but Felipe could see them flickering behind his lids. Héctor looked horrible. His skin was pale and ashen, the circles under his eyes were too dark, and his lips were dried out, cracked, and bleeding slightly around the corners of his mouth. Exhaustion and pain seemed permanently etched into his features after his rough day. His strength was guttering out like a candleflame.

"She's coming. Imelda will be here soon," he continued.

Somewhere in the house, Felipe thought he heard a door open. The front door? If so, then Imelda had returned. Hopefully Oscar's conversation with her helped. Maybe it was selfish, but Felipe was glad that he wasn't the one who talked to her. It was hard enough knowing what was happening, _watching_ it happen right in front of his eyes. Talking about Héctor's condition with their sister would be too much for him. He didn't want to hurt her. And that conversation would hurt Imelda more than he could possibly imagine.

Slumping forward and burying his face in his hands, Felipe groaned tiredly. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. How could this happen? Why would Ernesto do this? Why would _anyone_ put someone through this, let alone their best friend? It didn't make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

The bed started creaking, causing Felipe's head to snap up fast enough to nearly dislodge his glasses. For a moment, he hoped that Héctor was merely stirring in his semi-conscious state. Or perhaps even trying to sit up, though he knew immediately that was merely wishful thinking. But what Felipe saw was practically nightmarish.

Héctor was moving, which explained the creaking bed. But his movements lacked coordination, control, or purpose. Unaware and unseeing, his body convulsed as his muscles spasmed. He shook far more violently than his previous shivering from chills.

Horror and fear briefly froze Felipe, staring at the unnerving sight. Héctor's body convulsing on the bed, like a puppet having his strings yanked in every direction at once, chilled the fifteen-year-old to the bone. But after a few seconds and no sign of stopping, Felipe snapped out of his shock and flung himself out of the chair.

He didn't know what to do. Felipe had no idea what to do as the dying man thrashed in front of him. He couldn't think. All thought had been driven from his mind except for one: _make it stop, make it stop, make it stop_. He grabbed at Héctor's shoulders, trying to hold him still. He needed to stop what was happening. He needed to stop these… these… death throes.

Felipe was shouting. He could feel his voice straining, but he didn't know what was pouring from his mouth. Héctor's name? Imelda's? The doctor's? All three of them? Regardless of what the actual words were, they were a frantic and desperate plea for help.

He wouldn't stop shaking. The movements were unnatural and wrong. Why wouldn't it stop?

Too distracted by the convulsing figure in front of him, Felipe didn't realize that his pleas were answered until Dr. Ramírez pulled him back and pushed him out of the way. Felipe stumbled back several steps until he bumped into something, arms instantly wrapping tightly around him.

 _Imelda_.

The realization who it was behind him allowed some of the tension to pour out, Felipe's breathing and heart slowing back down. But it didn't fix everything. He let his big sister hold onto him, both of them shaking for more ordinary reasons than Héctor did. They watched as Dr. Ramírez turned his convulsing patient on his side and forced the pillow to stay under his head. The doctor looked concerned, but not panicking.

Her fingers digging into Felipe's arm, he knew Imelda's eyes never left her husband. Her breathing hitched slightly, but she didn't quite lose control. She remained steady.

"Hold on, Héctor," she begged softly, her voice filling his ears. "Don't do this. Don't leave us. Please don't leave us." Imelda tightened her hold on Felipe as the convulsions began to slow. "Hold on. Just hold on."

* * *

Dr. Ramírez pressed his stethoscope to his patient's chest, listening carefully. While the heart continued to beat despite all that had happened, it wasn't quite as steady and even as it should be. And each breath seemed to rattle in his struggling lungs. The doctor continued his examination as he moved the instrument across his patient's chest, though he already knew what he would find.

Héctor lived. His will to remain among the living kept him going even as the poison ensured death would eventually claim him. He should already be dead. That would be a kindness.

The seizure, brought on by the unseen damage that arsenic was doing to the man, only lasted a couple minutes before ending. But then another hit a short time later. And then a third. Such convulsions weren't unheard of even in cases without poison, though it wasn't something that he treated often and certainly wouldn't be a familiar sight for the man's family. But with arsenic poisoning, the brief seizures were a sign of how much his body was deteriorating. They were reaching the point of no return.

He made certain to reassure the family members that as disturbing as it looked, Héctor wasn't in pain. He would be unaware through the seizures. It didn't hurt. He wouldn't feel a thing.

At least they'd stopped for the moment. Convulsions could be unnerving to witness, especially for loved ones of the patient. The terrified cries for help from the half-grown boy that alerted them in the first place proved that much. As did Felipe and Imelda's hesitation to approach once the seizures passed. Imelda _did_ help Dr. Ramírez and his wife to clean up and settle things afterwards, trying to make the patient comfortable as they returned him to his back. She just looked rather somber as she did.

But after the convulsions eased and Héctor didn't regain even that semi-conscious state, Dr. Ramírez started examining his patient more closely again. Héctor didn't respond to their voices or stir when someone touched him. Prying open his eyelids and moving the candle in front of his face, Dr. Ramírez couldn't cause the eyes to react and the pupils remained dilated. And when the doctor sharply pricked him with a needle (making sure that Imelda didn't noticed because she was already on edge), his patient didn't even twitch. No form of stimuli could cause even an involuntary response in the man. Combined with the fragile and unsteady breathing and heartbeat, Dr. Ramírez could only come to one conclusion.

Pulling off the stethoscope and returning it to his bag, Dr. Ramírez said quietly, "I am very sorry. Señor Rivera has slipped into a coma."

A coma was slightly less scary to the average person than a seizure. They seemed more peaceful and less violent to witness. But no one would ever believe that they were a good sign.

"Will he wake up?" asked Felipe, his eyes wide and uncertain.

He saw a tiny flicker of hope in them, but no more than that. They knew what was happening. Even the firm and unwavering denial in Imelda's eyes had faded a bit since he last saw her. They wanted him to give them something to cling to, something that offered a small chance. But Dr. Ramírez could tell that they already knew the answer to the question.

"People _can_ come out of comas. They are the body's way of protecting the brain and giving it a chance to recover, so sometimes they can heal enough to wake up," Dr. Ramírez admitted honestly. "But I don't think that will be the case this time. He will likely remain in this state."

_Until he dies._

The doctor didn't have to say that last part because they understood. And he would likely not be in a coma for long before succumbing, though Héctor had exceeded all expectations so far. Dr. Ramírez truly thought that he would have died hours ago. The man shouldn't have made it to nightfall. But his heart kept stubbornly beating even as he continued to grow worse.

Since the seizures and coma had ended up with the man's arms drawn inward, Dr. Ramírez took a moment to settle the limbs into a slightly more natural and comfortable position. Or at least, it would be more comfortable if Héctor was conscious enough to notice. With his hands folded on his chest and the pillows positioned to offer what little help they could to making his breathing slightly less strained, they could almost pretend that Héctor was merely sleeping.

"He isn't in pain, though," Dr. Ramírez said. "He isn't suffering."

That tiny reassurance seemed to ease some of their worries. After watching him in pain all day and combating it with morphine, the limited supply carefully rationed as the man continued to linger, he wasn't in agony anymore. He was past that point. It wasn't much, but Héctor wasn't suffering.

"What… what can be done for him?" asked Imelda, her voice strained and quiet.

Nothing. There was nothing that they could do for Héctor. Not by this point. They were simply waiting for the inevitable. His body would eventually succumb to the damage that the poison had inflicted to all his internal systems. He was beyond help.

"If he starts convulsing again, place him on his side and keep a pillow under his head so he doesn't hurt himself. Though I doubt it will happen while he's in a coma," Dr. Ramírez said slowly. "And some believe that people in comas can still hear those around them. He might still be able to hear you. And even if he doesn't understand the words, perhaps he'll still notice your presence."

He slipped out of the chair. He could do nothing more for his patient. Pausing briefly to hug her brother and whisper something in his ear, Imelda claimed the vacated seat. If her eyes looked a little wetter or more exhausted than before, Dr. Ramírez was wise enough not to mention it.

"If you need me during the night, you can wake me up. I will be down the hall, Señora Rivera," he said gently.

" _Gracias_ ," said Imelda, her voice quiet and steady.

"Are… are you sure you… don't want me to stay?" Felipe asked, rubbing his arms awkwardly.

Shaking her head, Imelda said, "No. Go home. Stay with Coco and your brother. Get some rest. I'll be fine."

Whether she was being honest or not, her brother gave her a small nod after a moment and slowly slipped out of the room. Once Felipe left, her shoulders sank a little. Exhaustion and sorrow were already taking their toll.

"My wife offered earlier to stay up with you," Dr. Ramírez said gently. "If you prefer not to be alone."

"I'm not alone," said Imelda, her eyes never straying from the figure in the bed. "I'm with my husband."

Even when she chose to accept the inevitable, she was a stubborn woman. He could respect that. He gave her a short nod and turned to leave.

"Are you sure that it's arsenic poisoning?" asked the woman suddenly, her voice even and tired. "And are you sure that it… that it would have been Ernesto?"

Hesitating only a moment, Dr. Ramírez said, "As certain as I can be without witnessing the act myself."

She didn't respond further. She just reached over and took her husband's hand in hers.

* * *

She didn't notice that she'd fallen asleep until she started to wake up. She didn't mean to. She didn't plan to sleep. Imelda intended to remain awake by his side, watching over her husband through the long hours of the night. But it had been a long day and she was apparently more worn out than she expected.

Imelda slowly drifted awake to find herself leaning over in her chair, one arm folded on the blanket with her head resting across it. Confusion swirled in her head as her back and neck ached from the uncomfortable position of resting her head on the edge of a bed instead of actually sleeping in one. Then she remembered the previous day's events and she sat up suddenly, panic seizing her heart.

 _Héctor_.

The candle extinguished hours ago, but the gray predawn light coming through the window was enough for her to see him. _Breathing_. Just that simple fact calmed her slightly. After a second, she noticed other things. Her other hand, the one that hadn't been cradling her head a moment before, held onto his. Her fingers intertwined with his cooler ones, both rested on his chest and moved slightly with each breath. And she could hear him.

Héctor was never quiet and never still. He was music and motion wrapped in long limbs, warm eyes, and friendly smiles. Even in sleep, when she lay beside him in their bed with his arms wrapped around her and holding her close, Imelda could hear the eternal song that was her husband. Normally, he would shift in his sleep and hum musical fragments that filled his dreams. And she would listen to his heartbeat and breathing set a steady tempo for the tune. Everything was part of his music.

But the song was now rough and unpolished. She could hear him breathing, but it remained uneven and ragged. It seemed to rattle in his chest. And she could feel his heartbeat under her hand. The pattern didn't fit. Not the way that it should when he slept peacefully beside her. There was no humming or shifting in his sleep. It felt completely wrong, a song performed on a damaged instrument by a someone who never learned to play. The music was falling apart, unraveling into chaos and stumbling forward out of obligation. It was dying.

Héctor was dying.

Imelda shook her head sharply, gritting her teeth. Trying to deny it now would cross the line from stubbornness to idiocy. After she'd returned to find her husband convulsing, she'd known it was useless to pretend any longer. She just hated it.

She hated what was happening.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said quietly.

Imelda didn't know if her words meant anything to him now. She didn't know if he knew she was there. Perhaps he hadn't been aware of anything since the convulsions. He'd barely been able to notice his surroundings before then, wrapped in whatever scenarios his illness conjured in his mind. Did he know that she'd come back or had she been too late and he fell into this coma thinking that she'd abandoned him? Maybe if she hadn't stopped to ask Dr. Ramírez about his condition, then she would have at least been in the room and let him know that she'd come back before things slipped so far.

Well, the doctor _did_ say that sometimes people in comas might be able to hear those around them. If it was true, then her words might be able to reach him. It felt better to believe that Héctor could still hear her. Or would at least hear her voice and know that he wasn't alone.

Imelda abandoned the chair, moving to the edge of the bed so that she was sitting next to him. Her hand held his gently, resting lightly on his chest. He looked so thin, though he'd been skinny even before going on that idiotic tour. Didn't he have enough sense to eat when she wasn't there to take care of him? She could _feel_ his ribs under the fabric. She didn't like how sunken in his face looked either. And his dry, cracked lips looked dark against his ashen skin. Dark enough to appear almost blue.

Maybe the dim predawn light from the window made it look worse than it truly was.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she repeated. "You were supposed to come home, perfectly healthy and apologetic. I'd scold you for being gone so long, but I would forgive you in time. And Coco would be so happy, telling you about everything that happened while you were away. Then everything would go back to normal. You would play your guitar in the plaza and would be home each night. Maybe I would try teaching you to make shoes because you'd want to help. Even though we both know you'd be absolutely terrible at it." She chuckled, though it was a sad and choked sound. "It would be a miracle if you didn't cut off your fingers or stitch the leather to your sleeve."

Her tight and strained laughter over what theoretical disasters that he would cause sounded broken and wrong. And far too lonely. The choked laugh hurt, causing something deep in her chest to ache. She trailed off after a moment.

But she quickly realized that keeping quiet was worse. It meant that there was nothing to hear except the deathly rattle of Héctor's strained breathing. It wasn't a comforting sound. Héctor didn't sound like he was desperately trying to continue breathing. It… sounded more like he continued only because he forced himself to continue. Because he had no choice other than to _try_.

"We would have been all right," Imelda continued. "You would have played for Santa Cecilia. There is always work for _músico_ with your talent and skills. There is always a marriage, a _quince años_ , or something that requires music. And I would make shoes. Everything would have continued like it was meant to. Maybe… maybe Coco would have ended up with a baby brother or sister. Or maybe a couple. More wonderful children for us to love and share and raise together. And they would adore you just as much as Coco does. You'd probably write songs for them too."

Imelda closed her eyes briefly, imagining the children that they were supposed to have. Siblings for Coco… maybe sweet, maybe rambunctious, maybe stubborn, maybe easy-going… Maybe they would have made shoes with their mamá or played music with their papá. Or both.

She'd imagined them a thousand times. She and Héctor talked about it, how she loved growing up with her brothers and _primos_. How he always wanted a big family. How he wanted that sense of belonging and love, that he wanted their children to always know how much they were wanted and adored. And how nice it was to have more than just Ernesto, who was his brother in all but blood…

No, she wouldn't think about that man and all the implications… Not now…

She focused on the life and future with Héctor that they were supposed to have.

"And we'd watch all of them grow up. Coco and all her future siblings. They would fall in love like we did, finding someone special and _not_ having to _choose_ between love and family like… And you would still try to warn against breaking your children's hearts, but you wouldn't intimidate anyone. You would just welcome them into the family in the end. You would play at their weddings. You would play at _Coco's_ wedding."

Her free hand brushed against her cheek briefly. She ignored the wetness and kept talking.

"You'd probably write a new song for the occasion, something beautiful and filled with so much love, everyone would start crying. Including you as soon as you finished. But you would be so proud of our baby girl." Imelda took his hand in both of hers, trying to banish the chill with her warmth. "Eventually she and her siblings would have children of their own. And you would get to share music with all our countless grandchildren, who would _adore_ their abuelo."

She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly against the way they burned and seemed determined to water. Her throat tightened until she felt like she was choking. Swallowing against the lump, Imelda forced herself to continue.

"Can you imagine, Héctor? The large family that we always dreamed of. Our home filled with laughter, music, and love. Tiny feet dancing in Rivera shoes. Little fingers mimicking you on the guitar."

She leaned over him and brought his hand up, brushing a kiss on his knuckles. His fingernails had the same bluish tint as his lips. It wasn't from the cold. Too many blankets covered him for that. No matter how they tried to find the perfect position, Héctor just couldn't seem to catch his breath. No matter how fast or labored his breathing might seem, he couldn't get enough air.

"We'd grow old together," she continued, letting his hand settle back on his chest. "I'd start getting wrinkles, but you'd still claim that I was beautiful. Your fingers would get stiff, but one of our children or grandchildren would take over the guitar when it grew hard for you to play. Our joints would ache. Our hair would turn gray. Maybe our eyesight would weaken or our hearing would fade. We would slow down when we dance together, but we wouldn't stop. And our family would love and take care of us, just like my parents, tías, and tíos take care of Abuelito. Maybe we'd watch over the youngest children while their parents worked. You'd love that. And no matter how much time passed or how old we grew, you would still make my heart skip faster with your smile and that look in your eyes. The one that said that you loved me, the one that made me blush the first time I admitted it back. The look you gave me when we first saw Coco. No matter how old we grew together, you would never lose that look and I would never grow tired of seeing it in your eyes. _That's_ how it is supposed to be."

Imelda swallowed, struggling against the lump in her throat and the tightness in her chest. It _hurt_. And she was fighting to keep her voice calm and controlled. She needed to be strong. She needed to keep going.

"That's the future we were supposed to have," Imelda said quietly. "But I don't think it's possible anymore. It was _stolen_ from us. _He_ stole it…"

Gritting her teeth and trying to slow her breathing, Imelda dragged her thoughts away from Ernesto. This wasn't about him. She could hate the man later. Not now… She took a deep breath before letting it out slowly, her heart gradually calming back down.

"It's not fair. It's not right. You deserve so much better than that." She shook her head slightly. "But when has life ever been fair?"

She closed her eyes tight, trying to keep the tears from escaping. Her breathing kept trying to catch in her chest. The struggle kept getting more difficult.

"You came home, Héctor. You came home like I wanted, like I prayed every night and like I wished desperately with every letter," she said, her voice shaking despite her efforts. "You kept your promise and came back to us. And when I asked you to stay, you did. You promised not to leave me again. And despite everything that's happened to you, you're still here."

And he kept staying. She could still hear his strained breathing, his chest moving beneath her hands. But the sound broke her heart. Maybe he could no longer feel the pain that wracked his body all day. She hoped so with all her soul. But he'd already suffered long enough. He'd suffered far too much.

"I love you, Héctor. More than you can imagine. Coco loves you. And you don't have to prove anything, no matter what I said before. _Lo siento_. I never should have made you think otherwise. We know that you love us. You love us so much," said Imelda quietly. "And you've tried so hard to stay with us. You've been fighting this for a day and two nights."

She opened her eyes again, not even trying to stop the tears slipping down her face. Her chest ached sharply. Everything about this felt wrong. It wasn't fair. This shouldn't be happening. But as she stared at the quiet, pale, and still figure, Imelda knew that there was no changing what was coming.

"I wish more than anything for you to stay with us, to get better and to come home," Imelda said, leaning over him. "I'd give anything to help you. But if you can't… If you can't hold on any longer… I… I understand."

She leaned down, brushing a chaste kiss on his dry and cracked lips. It was short and innocent, like the type that she would give Coco before bed. It shouldn't be anything special. But she knew what the gesture truly was even as she made it.

A final kiss goodbye.

"I won't blame you. I… I promise," she said, her words choked by the start of sobs. "If you have… have to go, it'll… be all right. We'll be fine. We'll miss… miss you, but… we won't blame you, Héctor." She took a deep breath, trying to reclaim some control. "I love you, Héctor. And I'll _always_ love you. But if you can't keep going, then… you don't have to keep trying anymore. You can stop fighting if you need to. You can let go…"

Part of her hoped that Héctor would prove her wrong. That he would open his eyes at her words. That he would wake up and tell her that everything would be fine. But nothing changed even as more and more light streamed in through the window. His ragged and unsteady breathing continued, his chest moving weakly. The sound felt like glass stabbing into her heart.

Imelda closed her eyes, her forehead resting against his as she leaned over him. It wasn't fair. How could anyone do something like this to Héctor? He was a good man. A good papá. A good husband. He didn't deserve this. He—

 _Silence_.

Her eyes flew open. The room was suddenly too quiet, like a song cutting off without warning. And she didn't feel anything moving under her hands. She pulled back, horrified realization sinking into her.

The struggling heartbeat… The strained breathing… They were gone.

 _Héctor_ was gone.

"No… No, no, no," Imelda whispered. "Please, no."

Sobs starting to shake her, Imelda reached for her husband. But it didn't matter where she checked… His chest… His neck… His wrist… There was no pulse.

"Héctor," she begged softly, though she didn't know who she was addressing her words towards. "No. Please. No, no, not this."

Silent. Still.

Gone.

Imelda wrapped her arms around her husband, hugging him close as she sobbed into his shoulder. She couldn't feel his heart beating against her. She couldn't hear him breathing. He simply lay on the bed as dead weight.

Dead weight.

Another sob choked her, her chest far too tight and painful to bear.

Dead.

Héctor was dead.

Her husband was dead in her arms. He was gone. Even when she thought that she was prepared, even when she thought she'd accepted what was happening, it didn't…

"No, please, no," Imelda wept. "Héctor. Not my Héctor. Please…"

She bit back the pleas for him not to die, for him to come back to her. She forced herself not to speak the words. Even as it felt like someone had carved out her heart with a dull knife, she refused to beg for his return. No matter how much her soul ached for him already.

She promised that she wouldn't blame him if he couldn't hold on any longer. She promised that he could let go.

Instead, Imelda wept for her loss and the pain that it caused. She sobbed into his shoulder, missing his warmth and the music of his existence already. And she choked out the same words repeatedly as light from the rising sun filled the room.

" _Lo siento_. I love you. I love you, Héctor. _Lo siento_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to call me a heartless and evil monster, now is the perfect time. I worked really hard on this part. And it was really intense to write. So please let me know if it caused any kind of reaction from you guys. I am really curious to hear your thoughts on this one.


	7. Seize Your Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have successfully broken a lot of people's hearts. That means I did exactly what I set out to do. But the story isn't quite over yet. There's still a few more chapters before we reach the end. Hopefully you'll survive them.
> 
> And good news for you. This chapter is extra long. A lot longer than I originally thought it would be. Long enough that I could have probably broken it into two chapters, but I decided not to.

Arturo Palomo had spent the last two decades working as an Arrivals agent and he'd grown well acquainted with the process. It could be stressful, emotionally-trying, and difficult at times. It could even be painful; sometimes people reacted badly to the news and lashed out. But it was an important job. Death wasn't always easy to accept and sometimes they needed a little patience and a lot of compassion. Not to mention the paperwork took someone with experience to deal with.

Deep within the oldest stone buildings in the Land of the Dead, the structures near the yearly marigold bridge stretching deep below the waterline and with passages stretching downwards to places none dared to explore too much, were several large cavernous chambers. No one knew who created the rooms or why people appeared in them upon death. But they did. And always in the same places on the rough stone floor. At least, they did until someone had the bright idea of putting beds in the same locations. People had also expanded and renovated the chambers over the centuries, giving it a more comforting and reassuring atmosphere for the new arrivals.

Arturo and several other skeletons walked around the room, keeping an eye on the rows of beds on either side. Many of them were empty, just waiting for someone to appear upon death. Natural disasters and war could cause sudden influxes of arrivals, but currently the numbers were more manageable. Other beds held still and silent figures, the pale skeletons materializing upon their first deaths. From there, it was simply a matter of waiting until they started breathing.

The length of time involved between materializing in the beds and when they began to breathe varied depending on how long it took for the living to bury and put their loved ones to rest. Arturo honestly wasn't certain which was more heart-breaking: those who took a long time or those who didn't.

Those who remained silent and still for weeks or months stayed that way because no one ever buried their bodies. They would only begin to stir once their physical bodies decomposed enough or wild animals ate enough or their physical form was simply gone. They were never buried and could only awaken once enough time passed for there to be nothing left _to_ bury.

But while tragic, those who woke almost instantly tended to be more traumatized. Their deaths were never peaceful or natural. Those tended to be violent and brutal deaths, like being torn to pieces, burned to ashes, or buried alive. They woke sooner because they _couldn't_ be buried.

No, Arturo knew which arrivals were the worst. Children. That was why the agents always moved the children to a private and soothing room upstairs before they could wake up. Children needed special care. Only a handful of Arrivals agents were qualified to handle them. A child's death was always the most heart-breaking, though.

As he continued his rounds, Arturo noticed one of the skeletons breathing slowly. Like he was in a deep sleep rather than being a lifeless corpse. There was no alebrije waiting with him, the colorful spirit creatures occasionally climbing up the endless staircase from the depths to wait beside whoever they were meant to guide. This one was alone. Giving a nod to his closest co-workers, Arturo took charge of this one. They would let him handle this arrival, but they would remain close by. It was always smart to have someone ready to assist if the new arrival reacted badly. There was no way to predict someone's reactions ahead of time and experience had taught all of them that it was better to be prepared for worst case scenarios.

Arturo reached for the dark red curtains and pulled them closed around the bed. They'd sectioned each station off with those curtains decades ago, muffling outside sounds and providing privacy. It helped to keep the awakening skeletons from being overwhelmed. Each station also included a chair and a place to set the paperwork, making the space self-contained and cozy. No one would bother them until he opened the curtains again.

A quick look at the chalkboard attached to the foot of the bed revealed that the skeleton had arrived almost two weeks ago. Long enough to know that he wasn't buried immediately, but not so long ago that his body had been forgotten. Perhaps he was lost and alone when he passed and it took time to be found. Or perhaps they needed to delay a funeral for an autopsy. Regardless, it wasn't enough to be concerned.

But even when the new arrivals started breathing, it could take time to wake up. Arturo settled into the waiting chair. There was a lot of paperwork to deal with, explanations to provide, family to contact, and so on. But some things couldn't and shouldn't be rushed. One of the first lessons for Arrivals agents was to let the newcomers go at their own pace. Death could be traumatizing for some people and they needed to take their time to adjust. He could wait.

* * *

Héctor slowly felt himself stirring. He was tired, but it wasn't the draining exhaustion that dragged him down. Not like before. This was the pleasant drowsiness that remained after a long, comfortable, and deep sleep. And he certainly needed that sleep. It left him feeling better than before.

The pain was gone. He would have wept with relief if he was fully awake. Every part of his body had been in agony, intense and overwhelming. But it was gone. When he thought it would never stop hurting, when the sharp burning in his gut that seemed to slice into him, when it seemed to _consume him_ … it finally disappeared.

The pain was truly gone. So was the nausea, the vertigo, the chills, and the muscle cramps. He could _breathe_. The terrifying feeling that he couldn't get enough air in his lungs, no matter how hard he struggled and tried, was gone.

Héctor took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling easily. He felt better than he had in what felt like a long time. And he was gradually becoming aware more and more of his surroundings, slowly waking up. He was lying in a bed. Not their bed at home. Not curled up next to Imelda. But the bed was still comfortable. It was quiet. Peaceful. He couldn't bring himself to even open his eyes yet.

Maybe he was still at Dr. Ramírez's home. Héctor thought he remembered being there.

Honestly, other than the pain, exhaustion, and misery, his most recent memories were a little vague and jumbled. His recent illness left his mind a haze. He remembered Imelda… talking quietly, as if speaking from a long distance away… He remembered her voice, indistinct through the fog of his illness… And then something in him relaxed, knowing somehow that it was all right… He stopped resisting…

It was a blur, but that was the last that he could remember before slipping into the deep, dreamless, and painless sleep.

Héctor's head shifted slightly on the pillow. Part of him groggily wondered where Imelda was. Her hand wasn't resting against his face. Her fingers weren't wrapped around his. Her voice wasn't filling his head with soothing and comforting words. She should be with him. Why didn't he feel or hear her?

"Señor?" called an unknown voice gently. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

He frowned in confusion. That wasn't Dr. Ramírez. Nor was it anyone else that he recognized. What was going on?

Maybe they moved him to a hospital? It wouldn't be easy transporting him to another town where there was an actual hospital, but they might have tried if his condition was grave enough. And Héctor remembered how horrible he felt.

That must be what happened. He was in a hospital receiving treatment. That would explain why he felt so much better now. And it must be a doctor talking to him.

"Señor?"

" _Sí_ ," Héctor said quietly.

"That's good. Very good. Now, can you tell me your name?"

The doctor must be checking to see if his head was still mixed up from the illness. It made sense. Héctor remembered everything being hazy and confusing, almost dreamlike. They must have noticed too. They probably needed to check that Héctor was truly aware again.

"Héctor," he said. "Héctor Rivera."

He heard paper rustling and the scratching of a pen writing. Part of Héctor wanted to open his eyes and see what was happening. But he was too drowsy and comfortable to bother. It felt impossibly nice _not_ to be in agony anymore.

" _Gracias_ , Señor Rivera. And do you remember what happened?"

Héctor frowned at his question. He remembered. He didn't want to and some of his recent memories weren't completely clear, but he remembered enough.

"Sick. I was sick," he mumbled. "I made it home. Barely. My wife… my daughter…"

"You were sick?" interrupted the voice, dragging Héctor's thoughts away from his family for the moment. "Do you know what type of illness?"

Héctor nearly answered food poisoning, remembering the train ride and how he blamed the first symptoms on the _chorizo_ from dinner. But Dr. Ramírez never confirmed it. He didn't remember him identifying the sickness at all.

Wait… If the man talking to him was a doctor in a hospital, wouldn't _he_ know what made Héctor sick? So why would he ask? That realization prompted him to finally open his eyes.

The first thing that Héctor saw was a thick, dark red curtain that ran around the bed. Turning his head slightly, he could make out the crisp white linens covering him, far nicer than anything that Héctor ever slept under. Someone wanted to ensure that he felt comfortable as he slept. Everything seemed designed to be nice and peaceful.

Then he turned his head a little further and spotted his companion, causing Héctor to bolt up in shock and horror.

Pressing himself against the back of the bed, he found himself face-to-face with a grinning skeleton. Dressed in a blue uniform that vaguely resembled what train conductors might wear, the skeleton sat in a chair with a stack of paper calmly like he _wasn't a skeleton casually sitting there_. Héctor could see his skull, his vertebrae poking out of the top of his shirt, and boney hands at the end of his sleeves. Once again struggling to breathe, the unnerving sight left him panicking.

Granted, the skeleton seemed to be smiling reassuringly rather than the unnerving grin that he mistakenly assumed at first. And the bright red and blue swirls and dots decorating his skull helped distract from the creepiness a little. The skeleton also had eyes and neatly-combed hair for some reason. But it wasn't enough to cancel out the instinctive fear that the skeleton's presence caused.

"Easy, Señor Rivera," soothed the skeleton, taking care to keep his movements nonthreatening as he raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance. "You're safe. No one wants to hurt you. There's a few things that you need to know, however. Your situation has changed recently."

Still completely unnerved and staring with wide eyes, Héctor tried to slowly edge back further. He needed to get out of there. He wasn't in agony anymore nor painfully exhausted; he could do this. Once he reached the edge of the bed furthest from the skeleton, he would jump off, shove his way through the curtains, and make a run for it. With the element of surprise on his side, he should be able to escape.

Pulling his arm slowly out from under the thin blanket, not wanting to be tangled up during his planned flight, something white caught his eye. He couldn't help looking down. And when he did, Héctor froze.

Bones.

His hand was nothing, but bones. Smooth, white bones. There was no skin. No familiar calluses from years of playing the guitar. Only bones. Héctor stared at the shaking limb, barely able to comprehend what he saw.

Shouldn't it hurt? There was no skin, muscles, or anything on his hand. Shouldn't that cause pain? He tried to close it and his fingers instantly responded, curling towards his palm like normal.

Normal. This wasn't normal. This was wrong, wrong, _wrong_. It didn't hurt and he could feel, his sense of touch still working even without any flesh. But it was wrong. His hand was completely made of bones and _dios mío, it continued up the arm and_ —

"Breathe, Señor," said the skeleton, his steady voice finally breaking through the escalating panic attack. "I know this is a lot to take in all at once. Just take it easy and try to breathe. I apologize for the shock. And while I know it doesn't help much, I promise that everyone goes through this eventually."

Héctor struggled to get his breathing back under control rather than gasping like a landed fish. His hands (his boney hands) started patting his body, desperately hoping that he was wrong. Even through the loose and comfortable clothes, he could feel his ribs too easily. When he reached for his abdomen, the previous source of so much pain, he only felt an empty space. And when he moved to his face, everything was wrong. His features were too angular, hard, and sharp. His nose and ears were missing. He was left with…

A skull.

Just like the skeleton in front of him…

Realization began to creep over him, forcing him from panic to numb shock. It couldn't be true. There had to be another explanation. A dream or… or a hallucination of some kind… But…

"I was sick," Héctor said quietly, his voice shaking a little. Subconsciously pulling his arms inward until his hands rested against his ribcage, he couldn't feel his heartbeat even though it should be pounding in his chest. "Very sick…"

Sicker than he could ever remember before. Everything felt awful and it kept growing worse. The pain, the misery, the feeling of dread, the increasing mental fog and confusion, and the absolute exhaustion… The feeling it would never get better and would never stop, that he couldn't keep going any longer…

And then it abruptly stopped. Then he woke up in a strange bed next to the skeleton, looking like a skeleton himself…

"Did… did I die?" he asked, barely able to form the soft words. "Am I… dead?"

" _Sí_ ," said the skeleton, not unkindly. "This is the Land of the Dead. Now, I know this can be a lot to accept, but we're here to help make the transition as easy and with as little stress as possible. My name is Arturo Palomo and I'll be happy to help with any questions that you might have as we work on filling out the paperwork and get everything sorted. Then we'll work on contacting any deceased family that you might have."

Family. That slowly pulled him out of the thick emotional quagmire that Héctor had been sinking into. His family…

"My family… my family's alive… They aren't here…"

"That's all right," said Arturo. "We have resources in place to help people with no deceased family during their first year. Orphans, people who die young, and so on. It happens. Don't worry. We won't just turn you loose without any direction. We'll make sure you have the information that you need and set you up properly."

Héctor barely heard his words, his mind shaking off the numbness as the full implications of his situation began to sink in. Imelda… Coco… He left them… again…

He couldn't remember everything from his illness, his memories deteriorating as his condition worsened. He couldn't even remember what caused his feeling of calm and surrender before he fell aslee— before he _died_. But Héctor remembered promising not to leave them again. He remembered Imelda asking him to stay, begging him to hold on.

But he left them…

He _left_ his family again.

Héctor didn't even realize that he was moving until Arturo grabbed him, stopping his frantic attempt to run. Or at least slowing the attempt down because Héctor couldn't stop struggling against his grip, his body already deciding on a course of action and refusing to reconsider. Arturo alternated between soothing words and calling for help to restrain him, but Héctor couldn't seem to hear properly. It was like everyone was speaking from underwater. He didn't even know where he was trying to run to or what he was doing. A single thought kept echoing through his head.

He needed to go home.

"My family," Héctor called desperately. "I need to get back to them."

_Imelda brushing back his hair from his face, her loving smile not touching the sadness in her eyes._

"I can't leave them. Please."

_Coco singing her lullaby with him, her voice soft and sweet._

"I promised them. I promised."

_Imelda kissing his knuckles gently._

"I can't… I can't…"

_Hugging Coco in a tight grip to his chest._

"I… I…"

Héctor collapsed to his knees, slipping out of the grip of the three skeletons trying to stop him. His arms wrapped around his body, trying to stop shaking. He couldn't seem to catch his breath again, but it was due to sobs choking him. And his chest ached dully, a knot forming behind his ribs.

"You can't go home right now," said Arturo gently as the other two skeletons disappeared back through the curtain. He placed a hand back on Héctor's shoulder. " _Lo siento_. I know it's hard to accept. But you'll see them again. You just need to be patient, Señor Rivera."

He curled in on himself, grief and sorrow threatening to consume him. He died. He died and now he was separated from his wife and child. Everything that ever mattered to him was now beyond his reach. Ernesto… Imelda… Coco… Everything was gone.

He broke his promise. He left them. He barely made it back to his family and now he'd left them far behind.

Sobs continued to choke him as Héctor knelt on the stone floor, unable to hear the attempts to comfort him. He would have welcomed back the agony if it meant being back with his family. He would have endured it. He would have endured it for a century if that's what it took. He would pay any price to be home with his family again.

Only a day ago, he held his daughter in his arms. Now…

" _Lo siento… Lo siento_ …" Héctor sobbed softly.

Apologies tumbled out of him, but it would never be enough. It would never change what happened. He left behind everyone that he loved. He left them alone.

"I tried… I tried to come home… I didn't mean to go…"

"You were sick," said Arturo, his voice finally breaking through to him again. "Your family won't blame you for that. And your timing might mean that you have to wait almost a year, but you can see them on _Día de Muertos_."

Somehow, that managed to reignite a tiny spark of hope and halt his downward spiral. Memories of the holiday flickered through his head briefly. It wasn't much. It was nothing compared to what he'd just lost. But it was enough to cause Héctor to raise his head and meet Arturo's eyes.

" _Día de Muertos_?"

* * *

Ernesto stepped off the train, mildly bemused at how strange it felt to be back in Santa Cecilia after so long. He'd always known it was a small town. Far too small for someone like him. But after touring for months all over Mexico, Ernesto could see exactly how tiny and insignificant it truly was. Even the people that were now staring at him with strange expressions, probably trying not to swarm their long-absent _músico_ and unable to believe that he'd returned after so long, didn't seem as impressive, glamourous, or interesting as the crowds in the cities.

And yet Héctor wanted to abandon his best friend for _this_ place.

Ernesto followed the familiar paths of his hometown, his suitcase in one hand and his guitar slung across his back. He began to wonder how far stories of his performances had spread. Men watched him as he walked by. Women stared at him as they whispered in their children's ears, holding their hands tightly. Probably to keep them from swarming the _músico_. Ernesto grinned at each of them as he passed, basking in the results of his fame.

The house wasn't close to the train station, but he reached his destination before long. The sign painted on the wall was new though. Since when were the Riveras shoemakers? Was that what Héctor had been doing in the month since he left? Well, if that was the case, then it wouldn't be too hard to coax him back to the tour. No matter how much he thought he missed his home and family, Héctor wasn't a shoemaker. He was a musician. Once Ernesto spoke to him, he would finally see sense.

_Assuming that Héctor didn't die from the poison._

Ernesto shoved that thought and the unpleasant twinge it caused aside. He only did what was necessary because Héctor betrayed him. If his friend never tried to turn against him and abandon their dream, then Ernesto would have never needed to touch that rat poison. Whatever happened to Héctor was his own fault.

Adopting his most winning smile, Ernesto knocked on the front door. For a moment, only silence responded. But eventually it opened with a _creak_ and left Imelda Rivera standing in the door frame.

Other than the brief flash of anger and _something else_ that crossed her face before she adopted a more neutral expression, the young woman looked tired. Tired and weighed down by something. Over her shoulder, Ernesto glimpsed one of her younger brothers and the little girl. The half-grown boy narrowed his eyes as he pulled the child close.

"Ernesto," she said evenly. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I've been gone a while, yes," said Ernesto. "But after Héctor took the train back to Santa Cecilia a month ago, it just wasn't the same. The road can be a lonely place. And I was worried about him, to be honest. He didn't look so good the last time I saw him."

Imelda flinched slightly at her husband's name and he saw the flash of _something_ slide across her face again. But then her expression smoothed back out.

Turning over her shoulder, Imelda said, "Felipe? Could you watch Coco for a little while? Ernesto and I need to talk privately."

" _Sí_ ," said Felipe with a nod, pulling the little girl further back.

Imelda closed the door firmly. Then, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she started walking. Not knowing what else to do and growing more confused with each passing moment, Ernesto found himself following behind her.

Though it would have been polite to let him put his suitcase down somewhere first.

She didn't immediately explain what was going on. She walked calmly down the streets of Santa Cecilia. He briefly entertained the possibility that they were heading towards the plaza, that Héctor was there playing for the crowds like always. But she kept going. She didn't spare Ernesto a single look. She refused to turn around or meet his eyes. But others kept looking at them. It was like every person in Santa Cecilia seemed determined to watch their strange procession. Ernesto always appreciated attention, but he couldn't enjoy it currently. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Ernesto chose to break the silence.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to see Héctor," she said, her voice even and dull.

"And where is he?" asked Ernesto.

She led him around a corner and he paused, having the answer that he sought just as he remembered where in town they were. The smooth walls that rose up in front of them were interrupted at a single point, an arching shape over the entrance. The bell above rarely rang; especially compared to the one for the church. But it helped draw the eye above the black iron gates, which were almost always unlocked and open for anyone who wished to visit. The words that stretched overhead told Ernesto that the arsenic did work eventually. It took longer than he thought, but it worked.

 _Panteón Santa Cecilia_.

"Héctor made it home on that train, but only barely," she said quietly. "We did everything possible. But it wasn't enough."

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry that he's gone."

Ernesto honestly meant it. Héctor's death hurt, though he'd clearly lost his friend before that point. Losing all his talent and music was such a waste. Whether he was lost to death or mediocrity, it was the same result. Ernesto would never have his best friend back. He truly regretted that things had turned out the way they did.

He wanted it all. Fame, fortune, and his best friend by his side, playing music for the world. It was what was _supposed_ to happen. But Héctor turned against him and caused his fate. Héctor died because of his own decisions. He was the reason that Ernesto would have to do it alone.

It wasn't Ernesto's fault. Héctor left him no choice.

"I assume that now that you know, you would want to pay your respects. You can leave your belongings by the gate," Imelda said evenly. "No one will bother them."

He reluctantly set his suitcase and guitar down, eyeing a few people who stopped to stare at them. Ernesto recognized them, though he was struggling to recall their names at the moment.

"Come on. I'll show you where he's buried," she said.

As she led him between the headstones, Ernesto tried to adopt the perfect expression of loss. For now, stunned shock would be simple enough to manage. He wasn't supposed to expect this possibility. It would let him get away with calmer behavior. People would believe that he was just overwhelmed by the tragic death. But eventually he would have to show grief and mourning over the loss. His best friend was dead, after all.

 _Héctor was murdered_.

But it was Héctor's fault. Héctor's betrayal, not Ernesto's. The poison wasn't the true cause of the tragedy. Ernesto already lost him before the toast.

The upturned earth helped announce the correct grave before they reached it. A crude wooden cross served as a temporary marker until a proper headstone could be made. There was also space next to it, waiting for the day that his wife would pass and join him.

Héctor's grave. Héctor was buried in front of him. Ernesto could hardly wrap his mind around the concept. Even when he slipped the rat poison into his drink, knowing that he was trying to kill Héctor before he walked away with his songs forever, part of him never completely believed that it would end with his friend buried in the ground. Seeing it didn't feel real.

He glanced at Imelda out of the corner of his eye, trying to decipher her blank and controlled expression. He should say something. If he wanted to get the songbook, he would need to handle her carefully. He needed to get on her good side. Which was a bit of a problem since neither of them ever got along very well, but he didn't have many options.

"If… there is anything that I can do to help…" Ernesto shrugged, trying to keep his tone consoling and comforting. "I don't have much money, but for Héctor's—"

" _No_ ," Imelda interrupted sharply. Then taking a deep breath to calm herself, she said quietly, "We'll be fine on our own."

With her cold rejection of his offer, Ernesto hesitated about making his request. But he came all this way for those songs. He crossed lines that he'd never imagined. He did what was necessary. He couldn't give up now.

"I know that now isn't the best time to discuss this, but Héctor was my best friend," he said slowly. "I wouldn't want to let his legacy die with him. Tell me, did you find a small red book among his belongings? I know he took it with him when he left."

Imelda's head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, thoughts visibly churning in their dark depths. But she didn't answer.

"It was his songbook," he continued. "He wouldn't want his music to be forgotten. As his friend, he would want me to play his songs for him."

"His songs," said Imelda. Something about her voice or her eyes at that moment left him uncomfortable. "That's what you want? Héctor's songs?"

"It's what he would've wanted. You must see that," Ernesto said, his tone gentle. "His songs are meant for better things than to be left forgotten in an old book. He would have wanted his oldest friend to have those songs, to take them and continue what we started. He would have wanted me to sing them to the world."

She didn't respond to his words. She simply stared at him with an unwavering gaze, something in her eyes that he couldn't identify. Her breathing was growing a little faster and harder, her shoulders shook subtly as they rose and fell, but the young woman didn't show any other form of reaction.

" _Por favor_ ," he coaxed. "Surely you remember seeing his songbook? Perhaps in his suitcase? Or maybe he put it with his guitar?" Ernesto spread his hands and grinned at her. "And I was honest about helping your family. If you don't want charity, his guitar is a beautiful instrument that shouldn't be gathering dust. Since no one else in your household plays, I could buy the guitar from—"

In a flash of movement too fast for him to properly see, something hit his chin _hard_. Pain exploded across his face and the unexpected impact sent him crumbling to the ground with his head spinning, falling next to the fresh grave. Ernesto yelped in pain as he grabbed at his injured face. Copper filled his mouth from where he bit his lip and something dripped between his fingers.

" _That's_ for murdering the love of my life!" shouted Imelda, startling him into looking up.

Holding one of her boots in her hand and clearly responsible for the injury, she glared down at Ernesto while threatening him with her footwear. The calm and control in her face had evaporated. Fury and hatred now twisted her features, making her terrifying in that moment. Especially with her venomous words echoing in his ringing ears.

Murder.

_You murdered him_

It was Héctor's fault. He pushed Ernesto into it.

"What?" Ernesto said, trying to keep his voice steady. Slowly easing back towards his feet and keeping his words placating, he said, "You're just upset and confused—"

She swung again, the second hit just as blinding fast and hard as the first. The edge of the sole cut into his chin, pain blossoming as he fell back again. Cringing from the attack subconsciously, his tongue briefly brushed along his teeth to check if the impact knocked any loose.

" _Stay down_ ," she snarled. "Stay down there like the traitorous rat you are."

Ernesto felt the urge to argue, to deflect away the accusation, to defend himself rising up in his throat. But his entire face throbbed from the twin blows, blood continued to drip down his face onto his clothes, and the shorter woman looked far more intimidating looming over him with a predatory gleam in her eye. His survival instinct warned him to keep quiet and still for the moment. He might be bigger, stronger, and a man, but he was also the one in a vulnerable position on the ground and she had speed and fury on her side.

He glanced around, trying to find _anything_ to shift the situation to his favor. At the gate all the way across the cemetery, he spotted a small crowd and Ernesto tried to catch their attention, trying to convey with his eyes that he was trapped by a crazy and dangerous woman. They had to see the blood splattered on his hands covering his face.

But none of them seemed eager to intervene. Instead, they seemed perfectly content to just witness the confrontation. And now that he was looking, their expressions seemed angry and smugly satisfied by what they were seeing.

A heavy weight seemed to settle into his stomach.

"How _dare_ you?" Imelda snarled. "How _dare_ you come back here, acting like you did nothing? Asking for Héctor's belongings with his body barely in the ground?" Each sentence was punctuated with a threatening gesture from the boot in her hand. " _No_. You don't get to act innocent when I know what you did. When we _all_ know what you did."

"What are you talking about?" asked Ernesto, crawling backwards slightly and mixing dirt with the blood on his hands. "You're confused. Héctor was sick. It was bad luck."

" _It was arsenic_ ," she yelled.

Ernesto could feel himself growing pale at her words. She knew. She _knew_. How? Panic seemed to tighten around his throat. How much did she know?

Who else had she told? Could he keep it silenced? Could he keep _her_ silenced?

"Dr. Ramírez recognized Héctor's illness for what it truly was," Imelda said, a slight wavering in her voice even as it remained sharp. "And after… They did tests. And they proved it. Arsenic. The official cause of death was listed as arsenic poisoning. Not accident and not murder, but an investigation could still be opened if someone decides to push the issue. It's recorded now. Arsenic killed him. And you can't touch that evidence."

"And you think _I_ am responsible for—"

"Héctor was awake when he arrived. Awake and in pain," she said harshly. "He told us that you weren't happy about him coming home. And he told us about the toast. Which was the only thing that he ate or drank within the time frame that he was poisoned."

"You can't prove that," said Ernesto, his mind racing as he tried to find a way out. "You can't prove I did anything. You're guessing."

She knew. The doctor knew. Judging by the merciless expressions of those watching from a distance, the people of Santa Cecilia at least suspected. But no one could prove what happened. There were no witnesses to the crime. No witnesses to the toast. The tequila and rat poison were both long gone and the closest thing to a crime scene was in a different city from where he died. They might have proof that Héctor's death wasn't from natural causes, but none of it could be connected to Ernesto. They couldn't even prove that it was murder rather than a stupid accident.

And at the end of the day, it didn't matter how stubborn and angry Imelda might be. He was a man and she was a young woman, one without a husband and disowned by her family. No one in authority would take her word over his. If he gave even a flimsy explanation for what could have happened instead, they would toss her accusations aside in a heartbeat.

And if she continued to cause trouble anyway, then he could always take more drastic and permanent measures. Accidents happen.

His thoughts stumbled to a halt as a grin spread across Imelda's face. There was no joy in the expression. It was made of sharp edges and broken glass. Her eyes reminded him of a hungry wolf cornering her prey. The predatory grin couldn't be more vicious if fangs filled her mouth.

"I don't have to prove what you did," Imelda practically growled, looming over him. "All I have to do is threaten the only thing you care about in the world: your precious chance at fame."

She shook her head sharply. But she never lowered her boot from the attack position.

"Héctor died slowly. In agony. He vomited blood and couldn't keep down water, no matter how much he tried to drink. He ended up suffering from convulsions before the end. It took over a day for the poison to finally kill him," she said, her voice steady and sharp. Either not noticing how uncomfortable Ernesto felt hearing the description of his friend's demise or not caring about his reaction, Imelda continued, "And why? Because he wanted to go home? Because you wanted his songs? Because of your dream of fame?"

"He _abandoned_ me," snapped Ernesto, unable to stop himself. "He _betrayed_ me."

"Don't talk about betrayal, Ernesto de la Cruz. Look at what your dreams have cost us. My husband's life…. Coco growing up without a papá… Your friend and brother in all but blood… _That's_ the price you paid in pursuit of fame. Because that's all that matters to you. And that's what I can threaten you with."

The blood on his chin and on his hands was starting to dry, growing sticky on his skin. But Ernesto couldn't look. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the vicious and predatory expression on her face.

"You will _never_ get Héctor's songs. You will get back on that train, leave Santa Cecilia, and never return. And if you don't, I will push for the police in Mexico City to investigate. And I will tell everyone what you did to my husband. No matter where you go, I will follow and spread the story. Maybe no one will be able to prove it, but I'll make them wonder. And that doubt and suspicion will cast a shadow on your reputation that you'll never escape. No song will make people forget. They'll always remember in the back of their minds, wondering if you truly are a murderer."

"And what if something should happen to you first? A young widow… all alone? You may never have a chance to tell anyone a thing," hissed Ernesto. "Or what if something should happen to your child while you are out telling stories?"

"Mamá and Papá have agreed to take in my brothers and Coco if necessary. And as much as I hate asking anything of them, I _will_. You know how well-regarded the rest of the Riveras are in this town. They've been here since the start. You don't have the money, family, or influence to risk harming anyone under their protection," she said without hesitation. "My family will be safe. As for me? If you want a war, I'll give you one. I'm willing to risk whatever it takes to drag you down with me. Whatever it takes."

Her words chilled him to the bone. She meant it. He could see it in her eyes. Imelda would sacrifice herself and everything that she had if it made Ernesto suffer too. Losing her husband transformed her into something feral and deadly. She would set herself aflame if it meant burning him. Ruthless and without mercy, Imelda would ensure that even if she ultimately lost, he would come out wounded.

"Besides, killing me would ensure that your reputation is _shredded_ ," she continued. "You can't do it now. Too many witnesses." Imelda gestured across the cemetery with the hand not holding her boot. "Everyone knows you're here and what I'm telling you. Gossip moves fast in small towns, remember? So if I suddenly die 'unexpectedly' at some point after this, they'll spread rumors of your involvement in _two_ deaths. And you won't be able to avoid people investigating. Again, even if they can't prove enough to arrest you, the scandal will stain you for the rest of your life. So take my advice. Leave and never come back to Santa Cecilia. No one wants you here. Do that and never play Héctor's songs… And I'll hold my tongue. As will the rest of the town. The truth will never leave Santa Cecilia."

Struggling to find a way around the bleak possibilities that she was describing, Ernesto asked, "And what is it you expect me to do?"

"Write your own songs? Play older songs? Find a new songwriter? Confess and try to wash away the sins staining your soul? Learn to make fireworks? Honestly, I couldn't care less. Just know that I'll be watching your musical career and if I hear a hint of one of Héctor's songs, I will ensure the truth will spread."

Fury and frustration churned in his gut. How dare she? Who did she think she was? Blackmailing him like this?

"You'll pay for this," he hissed.

"I already have."

"Do you think that you can get away with this? What happens when I'm a success? When I have all the power and money that comes with fame? Do you think that you and your family will be able to stop me from making you suffer for this? Those songs _will_ be mine."

She chuckled, a dry and sharp-edged thing, and said, "That's the irony of it. The only way to get the fame and fortune that you would need to try that would be if you found success _without_ Héctor's songs. Which means you wouldn't need them at that point. And by then, you would have far more to lose if the truth was exposed. You wouldn't risk it."

Imelda was right. While both of them were determined to achieve their goals, Ernesto was only willing to kill for it. She was willing to die to achieve what she wanted. He couldn't beat her. Or at least, he couldn't win without a steep cost for himself. One he couldn't pay.

_But I can't do it without your songs._

The songs were beyond his reach.

_I killed Héctor for those songs._

He killed his best friend. He murdered him and now he couldn't even use his songs.

"Without Héctor's songs," said Ernesto in a distant and desperate tone, "then it was all for nothing. Everything I did… Everything I sacrificed… It would all be for nothing."

Taking a step back, Imelda said coldly, "It was always for nothing. Leave. _Now_."

Watching the boot in her hand cautiously in case she lashed out again, Ernesto slowly climbed to his feet. Imelda waited out of reach, her expression never softening as she glared at the man. Part of him wanted to grab her throat and silence the woman permanently, but it would only make things worse.

He'd been beaten.

The small crowd remained, watching him walk over and retrieve his belongings. No one had touched the suitcase or guitar, just as Imelda promised. Dark muttering followed and the looks directed towards him sent a chill up his spine, but no one stopped him. A woman, the doctor's wife, stepped forward from the group and spat at him, barely missing his shoe. Ernesto tried to move a little faster just in case they decided to graduate to throwing stones or something worse.

Once again, Ernesto found himself walking the streets of Santa Cecilia with his suitcase and guitar. This time, he was quite aware of the hostility in the stares he was receiving. He was no longer welcomed. He knew that he would never be able to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, Héctor ended up a bit overwhelmed by everything. And he's definitely not happy about his circumstances. He just wanted to go home…
> 
> And Ernesto hasn't have decades to rewrite history in his head and grow harder, so his conscience does still occasionally pipe up and say "um, you kind of killed your best friend and that's not exactly good." So he does have a bit more guilt still compared to what he showed in the film. But he's still a murdering jerk. Just one without the songbook.  
> Two more chapters left. Thanks for all the support so far. And the feedback.


	8. Each Time You Hear A Sad Guitar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So most of the comments for the last chapter can be summarized as "Poor Héctor," "Die, Ernesto," "Go, Imelda," or some combination of the three. And that's exactly the type of reactions that I was looking for.

Imelda managed to maintain her cold and unyielding façade as Ernesto left the cemetery, just as she'd hidden her emotions when he first arrived on their doorstep without warning. She even remained firm afterwards, nodding in acknowledgement as the people crowded at the iron gates slowly dispersed. Only after she was completely alone did Imelda allow herself to crumble to her knees and let out a choked and furious sob, her boot dropping from her hand to the ground.

That man… They allowed him into their house. Coco called him "Tío Ernesto" and liked it when he and her papá played together. He was Héctor's best friend.

And yet despite all that, Ernesto murdered him…

"For your songs," she whispered, staring at the silent grave beside her. Her hands were on her knees as she knelt there, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. "All of this… because of music."

As painful as it was to hear, Ernesto asking for the songbook right in front of Héctor's grave and realizing _why_ it happened wasn't close to the worst thing that she'd faced. Almost everything in the past month had been impossibly hard. From the moment that Señora Ramírez walked into that bedroom to find her sobbing into Héctor's lifeless shoulder and the doctor came in to confirm what Imelda already knew, everything had seemed impossibly hard.

Laying out the body in the butcher's cold room until test results from the sample sent to the hospital were finished…

She and Margarita Ramírez couldn't even properly clean and dress the body for the funeral until afterwards. It took two weeks before she could lay her husband to rest. There might not be much proof available, but they tried to prove as much as they could about what happened. And that meant keeping everything untouched.

The pitying looks from everyone in town as his simple coffin was lowered into the ground…

They knew. They all knew. Rumors had started flying as soon as the train arrived with Héctor barely able to stand, even with help. And the doctor and his family confirmed the rest. Everyone in Santa Cecilia knew she was a widow not even half a day after Héctor's heart stopped beating. And by nightfall, everyone knew who was almost certainly involved.

Dealing with her parents again…

Imelda barely had the emotional energy to think about them even now. Outside of her brothers and her daughter, her entire family was exhausting. And she honestly didn't know if she wanted to lash out at them or to bury her face in Mamá's shoulder and cry like she did when she was a little girl.

But the worst thing about the entire situation, the hardest challenge that she'd faced since that dawn, was when Imelda walked home that morning and Coco met her at the door.

Imelda couldn't get that memory out of her mind. She still saw it when she closed her eyes, her daughter standing there with Oscar and Felipe. The twins knew immediately. Imelda's face told them exactly what happened, her eyes too red and her face too blotchy to conceal her earlier tears. But Coco…

Explaining the news to the girl was heartbreaking. Death was just a word to her or something that only happened to insects that tried to crawl around their home and were stepped on. Even with _Día de Muertos_ barely passed, only a decorative box on the small _ofrenda_ to represent Imelda's _abuela_ who passed before _fotos_ became common, Coco only saw the holiday as a chance to stay up late and see the pretty candles while her mamá talked about a woman from a long time ago. Death was a foreign concept, one that had no place in the child's world. And certainly not something that could touch her family.

So Coco had stared in innocent confusion as Imelda knelt down to her level and tried to explain in an unsteady voice that her papá was too sick, that he couldn't get better even with the doctor's help, and that he was so sick that he eventually fell into a sleep that he couldn't wake up from. She remembered how even in her confusion, Coco seemed to realize that something was wrong though. Coco asked to go, wanting to try and wake him up. And when Imelda and her brothers tried to explain that Héctor was gone, she started asking when he was coming home. Like so many times before, Coco begged to know when her papá would come home. And this time, Imelda had to admit the answer was "never."

It only grew worse. Her demands to see papá grew louder and more frantic, the scared and confused girl refusing to believe that he would ever leave forever. Eventually, Imelda ended up hugging a crying and struggling Coco tight, the child calling out for her papá and promising to be good. She kept asking what she did wrong, why her papá wouldn't come home… It took all of Imelda's strength to keep her voice reassuring as she held her daughter, stroking her hair. She held the scared and confused child close even as Oscar and Felipe joined the hug.

Even after the initial shock, Coco didn't immediately understand the permanence or even what caused death. Imelda tried everything she could to make things easier. Imelda made certain to tell her repeatedly that Coco did nothing wrong, that it wasn't anything that she or Héctor did wrong, that her papá loved her with all his heart, and that he would have stayed if he possibly could. She asked Padre Fernando to speak to Coco, hoping that maybe he would be able to better explain death and what happened to those who died in a comforting manner. And after the girl woke up crying several nights in a row, Coco started sleeping in Imelda's bed to avoid further nightmares.

Besides, Imelda slept a little better holding her daughter close. It kept her from dreaming about Héctor curled up next to her. She used to have those dreams during his tour, but now they hurt more than she could have imagined. Because when Imelda woke up from those dreams and he wasn't there, tears would choke her as she lost her husband yet again.

Imelda closed her eyes and shook her head sharply, forcing down further furious sobs. None of this was right or fair. Coco shouldn't have to learn the harsher realities of the world yet. And Imelda hated the knowledge that the autopsy revealed about the damage the poison did to his organs, though she forced Dr. Ramírez to tell her against his better judgment. She knew what Ernesto's actions did to her husband. She hated the man for what he did to Héctor and her family.

And Ernesto murdered Héctor _for his songs_.

Her eyes burning, Imelda brushed the worst of her tears away with her hand. If it wasn't for those songs, she would still have her husband. All of her heartache… Coco waking up in tears, calling out for someone that would never come home… Everything… Her family lost _everything_ because of music.

Those songs weren't worth Héctor's life. They weren't worth all the pain and sorrow that the poison caused. Music had torn her family apart. Maybe they would be better off without—

" _Mew_?"

Imelda opened her eyes as something small bumped into her leg. A tiny, gray, ragged clump of fur stood there, trying to rub against her. It took her a moment to recognize the shape as a small kitten, one young enough to still have a chubby little tail sticking straight up and who was toddling clumsily on its paws. But its fur was a mess, matted by something sticky drying it into pointy clumps and trapping various pieces of dirt and debris in place. Imelda even spotted a pumpkin seed tangled in the short fur on its head.

Nudging the filthy kitten away, Imelda said, "Go. Go away. Go back to your mamá."

Her efforts resulted in the kitten tumbling on its— _her_ back. But she rolled back over and started trying to climb into the woman's lap. The kitten's tiny claws kept getting stuck in the fabric of Imelda's dress and she didn't seem to be completely coordinated for more complicated actions like climbing, but that didn't seem to deter her. Nor did Imelda's gentle and yet firm attempts to dislodge and chase the filthy creature away. Finally, she gave up and let the stray pull herself into the woman's lap. Immediately satisfied with her accomplishment, the kitten yawned and curled up on her new perch.

Imelda sighed tiredly, her eyes drifting back to the crude cross now that the small creature was no longer trying to distract her. It would take time to get a proper gravestone. Her parents offered to pay for one, a sign of good faith and a desire to reconcile. Imelda wanted to reject the offer out of hand. If the influential and proud Nicolás and Josefina Rivera couldn't respect and accept Héctor in life, then she didn't want them to pretend to in death. But Imelda knew that without the money sent back with Héctor's letters to supplement what her shoes brought in, they would need every peso. The next few months would be difficult enough already and it would be better to let them pay for a headstone.

Saving a little money now might make the difference between retaining her independence and having to move back in with the rest of the family. And Imelda wanted to avoid that. She might be willing to let Coco, Oscar, and Felipe stay with them if necessary to protect them from Ernesto and any possible retaliation, but she refused to stay under the same roof. Not when she knew that crawling back would involved hearing all those comments about how they knew that it would never work out, that she should have listened to her family in the first place, and so on while they wrapped their words in a thin shell of sympathy and pity. She would find a way to manage without the help of anyone other than her brothers. _They_ never turned their backs on her or Héctor.

"We'll find a way," she said quietly. "We'll manage."

A breeze blew past, ruffling her hair slightly and making her shiver. It was late enough in the season that she couldn't ignore the chill in the air now. The new year had begun and the holidays had passed by in a particularly somber fashion. It was hard enough spending _Día de Muertos_ with Héctor away on their tour. But then Coco's birthday came… And then _Las Posadas_ … Then _Nochebuena_ and _Navidad_ … And now _Día de Reyes_ was almost upon them… Héctor's absence seemed to hurt all the more sharply with each day that passed without him, though the holidays made the pain all the more obvious.

He should have been there with them. Héctor should have been with his family, not buried in the cold ground. And it was all Ernesto's doing.

" _Lo siento_ ," Imelda whispered, brushing away a few more tears. "You deserve justice, Héctor. You deserve so much better. And _that man_ deserves to _hang_ for what he did to you."

But they couldn't prove it. Even with all the information that they gathered from the tests the hospital did on the sample Dr. Ramírez sent and from the autopsy, it wasn't enough. They could prove what caused Héctor's death, but not who did it. The words of a dying man, one who didn't even know that he was poisoned and who started hallucinating before the end, wasn't exactly a reliable testimony. Everyone else was in a completely different town from where the crime occurred. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, Imelda's words wouldn't be enough. Ernesto would be able to slither out of any accusations.

She thought that she would feel better once she confronted him. She thought that, even if she couldn't have him arrested, she could make him suffer a little and that it would help. But even when she stared down at him on the ground, bleeding and vulnerable, it wasn't enough…

Imelda couldn't make him pay. Not like he deserved. And even though she would make certain that her family would be safe, the only other way to make him suffer more ran the risk of self-destruction. She would do it if necessary. The fury and heartache made the decision easy. She would do it in a heartbeat. It would be worth the danger to her own life.

But that would also leave Coco as an orphan.

Blackmailing Ernesto into a stalemate… Denying him the use of Héctor's songs and guitar… It wasn't what he deserved. Far from it. But it was better than letting him get away with his crime completely.

"It isn't enough. I wish I could do more, but our daughter… She can't lose _both_ of us," she continued softly. "Mamá, Papá, and everyone would take care of Coco, but it wouldn't be the same. And if you were here…" Imelda swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I know you would rather I take care of her. I want that man to _suffer_ like he made you. I want him to pay for everything he's done… But Coco comes first. So this is the best I can do. I can keep him from using your songs and I can ensure that he spends the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, worrying that someone will reveal the truth."

She wrapped her arms around her body, hugging herself tight. Of all the farfetched and impossible reasons that she'd considered for why Ernesto would murder his best friend, stealing Héctor's songs wasn't one that she ever imagined. Jealousy, anger, or insanity, yes. Stealing his music? No. It never occurred to her.

Those songs… Filled with Héctor's energy, excitement, and enthusiasm… Written out of love, _for_ those he loved…

How could his music, something beautiful and wonderful, have led to Héctor's murder? How could Ernesto think that those songs could be worth killing for?

How could she ever think about music, something that had always reminded her of Héctor in the past, when now it would only remind her of why he was murdered?

Quiet purring drew Imelda's attention back down to her unexpected companion, pulling her thoughts back to the present. There weren't normally many kittens around this time of year, especially tiny and wobbly ones that couldn't be much more than three or four weeks old. The little scrap of mattered fur shouldn't be wandering around so far from her mamá and siblings. But she was small, possibly even the runt of the litter. She was too thin and severely ungroomed…

"You haven't seen your mamá in a while, have you?" Imelda asked gently. "You're all alone."

" _Mew_."

Her fingers absently scratched at the scrawny kitten's fur, teasing the pumpkin seed loose from where it was caught. She honestly didn't know how it ended up there anyway. The purring nearly doubled in volume as the tiny creature arched her back in response to the woman's efforts. Her tiny paws started kneading on Imelda's legs, her needle-like claws getting tangled in the fabric again.

"You aren't going anywhere, are you?"

The kitten yawned again before blinking her yellow eyes at the woman. Imelda had a feeling she'd been claimed by the tiny stray.

Looking towards the silent grave, Imelda found herself smiling wryly despite everything and said, "I suppose you would find this funny, wouldn't you? You always joked that you were just a stray _músico_ who followed me home. And now there's another stray trying to wiggle her way in."

Héctor _would_ have thought it was funny. He would have laughed about the kitten deciding to climb into his wife's lap, refusing to be deterred. He would have teased her gently, saying she charmed even the animals with her beauty and warmth. He would have talked about how she loved being a mamá so much that now she was going to be one for a cat. He would have commented that Coco would love the tiny animal. He might have even written a song about the entire thing…

Because that was how Héctor expressed and shared his love. With his music. Every song that he ever wrote was filled with affection for those he loved and cherished. And whenever he played the guitar or sang a tune, he performed as if it was meant for only one person. He played as if there was someone special that he was addressing the song towards, even if there was a whole crowd listening. No matter the music, he put his heart into every note.

Ernesto stole so much from them. He stole Héctor's life. He stole the future that they were meant to have. Ernesto wouldn't take his songs. And he wouldn't steal away music itself from their family. He wouldn't steal away that remaining connection to Héctor's love.

Ernesto was the one who decided to kill Héctor. Music wasn't to blame for the man's actions. She _refused_ to let that treacherous rat ruin her memory of music.

Yes, music might hurt right now, the very idea of singing tearing at the ragged hole in her heart. But someday it might hurt less. She couldn't cut music out of life; it would be like cutting out all that she had left of Héctor.

"I wish that you were here," Imelda said. "You should be here. With your family." She closed her eyes, mentally and emotionally worn out. "I love you, Héctor. That will never change."

As she opened her eyes again, Imelda gathered the kitten into her arms with minimal mews of protest. She stood up, pulling her boot back on with one hand while balancing the animal with the other. Imelda scratched behind the feline's ears after a moment, causing the kitten to purr loudly and rub against the woman's chest affectionately.

It wasn't exactly what she wanted. She wanted her husband standing with her, wrapping his arms around her and humming a half-finished song in her ear. But he wasn't there and the kitten was. The small animal needed her and being needed gave Imelda purpose.

Taking care of Coco, her brothers, and now the kitten gave her a purpose to focus on instead of the aching pain in her chest. Both having a purpose and her hatred of Ernesto would give her the strength to keep going. She couldn't give up because Héctor was gone, no matter how much it hurt. She would keep going for her family and out of spite for that murderer.

"I hope you plan to be a good mouser when you grow up," she murmured, her fingers tugging at her matted fur. "We're all going to need to pitch in around here. It'll be hard, but we'll find a way."

Imelda took a deep breath and then started walking. She moved past the graves, cuddling the small scrap of filthy fur. It was hard to tell with everything matted and dirty, but the short fur on the kitten's hindfeet looked paler than the rest. Almost like she was wearing a pair of shoes.

How appropriate for the cat of a shoemaker.

"We'll find a way. We'll be all right," she murmured, feeling the kitten's purrs vibrating against her chest. "I'll take care of our family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is a bit shorter, but I have an explanation. If I continued to the point that I originally planned, this would be a very long chapter. So I'm breaking it up. Which means that this story will have one more chapter than I originally told you. But I don't think you're complaining.
> 
> Thanks for continuing to read this bittersweet story. Hopefully you're still enjoying it.


	9. Remember Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, this was originally going to be part of the previous chapter. Which means that this isn't the last chapter. There will be one more after this. But for now, sit back and enjoy.

"I know the lines seem completely crazy even this early, but trust me. They used to be worse. The newer dead have _fotos_ on the _ofrendas_ and that's easier to check than trying to figure out which treasured belonging is supposed to represent each person. Now the older dead like me, the ones who died before we could get a _foto_ , have a card that lets us go to a different line where they use the slower way to check. It involves these Xoloitzcuintli alebrijes and seeing if _cempazúchitl_ petals react to us. Very old fashioned and very slow. That's where I'll need to head, _mi amigo_. But your family has a _foto_ of you, right?"

Héctor could barely bring himself to listen to Tomás' question, staring at the crowds of skeletons shuffling their way into the older stone building. The same one that he woke up in almost a year ago, though that room was somewhere downstairs. But his thoughts weren't on that day. All that he could think about was how close he was to seeing his family again.

The last several months had been hard. Harder than he could have imagined. The first month was the worst though.

There were the nightmares. About his death, about what might be happening to those he cared about, and about things that he couldn't remember properly and yet still left him shaking when he snapped awake. He would find himself far too often waking up in a confused state, clutching at his nonexistent stomach or trying to hold onto a hand that wasn't there.

And in his waking hours, he had struggled to deal with the disconcerting _wrongness_ of his body. He'd flinched at his reflection, could barely look at himself when he'd changed clothes, and nearly had a panic attack the first time he stumbled over the edge of one of the narrow walkways and fell to pieces. Literally. He could adapt to _everyone else_ being skeletons, but it was different when it was _his_ body that had changed into something foreign and strange. Nothing looked or felt familiar anymore.

But even after the first month passed and the worst of those initial issues began to ease, Héctor couldn't stop feeling the deep ache in his ribcage from missing his family.

Distractions helped. A little. The rooms provided for the first year were small and impersonal things, reminding Héctor too much of all those inns that he stayed in with Ernesto. He appreciated the roof over his head, the small basket of complimentary basic supplies, the education pamphlets, and the set of simple clothes made available for those who arrived in inappropriate attire, but he couldn't bring himself to spend more time in that lonely and empty room than necessary. Héctor spent his days exploring, trying to keep his mind too busy to think. If he was too busy and tired to think about everything that he'd lost, then the pain and sorrow couldn't consume him completely.

That was how he met Tomás. An older skeleton, both physically and chronologically, had been perched on the edge of a fountain and plucking out a tune on a worn guitar. A familiar and old tune that Héctor remembered from growing up, but one that the man with the blue starburst-like facial markings seemed to have trouble getting through without fumbling. After his fourth attempt ended in another mistake, Héctor could no longer resist the impulse to approach and help him with the tricky chords. Apparently, the man had planned to play it for his wife for their anniversary and was more than thankful for the advice.

Naturally, they talked for a little while afterwards and the older man learned that he was relatively new to the Land of the Dead and with no dead family members to count on. From there, Tomás seemed determined to help Héctor get on his feet.

It was mostly small gestures and pieces of advice. Tomás would loan Héctor his guitar regularly; the man only played occasionally for fun and would be happy to trade it for a few hours in exchange for hearing a couple older songs. That allowed Héctor to start performing again, playing for small crowds in public places. Just like he did with Ernesto back in Santa Cecilia. Tomás would also mention good places to find a decent meal or neighborhoods to avoid when in a hurry. And he volunteered to help Héctor navigate through his first _Día de Muertos_ before going to see his great-grandchildren with the rest of his deceased family.

"Héctor?" said Tomás, trying to get his attention again. "You said that your family had a _foto_?"

Blinking briefly and trying to shake off the worst of his distraction, he said, " _Sí_. Two. One of me and my family and another that was just me. It was Ernesto's idea, when I started talking about how much I missed my family and how much they must… I was going to send it with one of my letters, but I decided to go home instead and…"

He trailed off, looking towards the crowds while his hand tightened around the basket he was holding, the one that Tomás told him that he needed to bring. They'd been there for over an hour, arriving long before anyone could start crossing. The sheer numbers involved was the reason that Tomás insisted that they needed to arrive early. They needed to get him a good spot in line or they would be waiting half the night before reaching the bridge. And that would mean less time at home.

But the long time standing around with nothing to do except wait meant that Héctor couldn't keep himself from thinking. What if something went wrong? What if he couldn't go home? What if they lost the _fotos_? What if there was a fire or they were damaged somehow? He knew how this worked. Everyone made it clear how only those on an _ofrenda_ could cross the bridge. It was one of the first pamphlets they handed him when he arrived.

What if something happened to Imelda and Coco? Nothing fatal, thankfully, or they else they would be with him far too soon. But what if they were thrown out on the street, without a home? What if Imelda was forced to go back to her family, though at the cost of pretending the "orphan _músico_ " never existed?

Or what if she remarried and her new husband didn't want any sign of her previous one, not even on the _ofrenda_? It wouldn't be unusual for a widow to remarry; Héctor wasn't oblivious to the fact that the world could be unkind to women on their own. Especially women left alone with a child to support. It hurt to consider, but Imelda deserved to have someone with her. She deserved to be loved. Héctor couldn't be with her, no matter how much he wanted to be. He couldn't help her or Coco anymore. And with her warmth and beauty, it wouldn't take Imelda long to find someone.

But what if she found a new husband and he was cruel? What if it was a man who would see Imelda's fire and Coco's spirit and try to extinguish it?

Or what if…?

What if Imelda was angry with him for breaking his promise and leaving them? He knew that train of thought was irrational and foolish, that he didn't leave on purpose. Though the indistinct memory of a reassured feeling of surrender made him wonder sometimes if it was a choice after all… Maybe if he'd fought hard, he could have stayed with them. And Imelda was a passionate woman, both with her love and her fury. She could hold onto her anger for longer than most. She begged him to stay and he let go, slipping away. That would have hurt his family more than he could consider and Imelda usually turned pain into anger. What if she kept him off the _ofrenda_ , too upset by his broken promise to forgive him just yet? What if—

"Stop it," said Tomás, yanking him out of his thoughts.

" _Qué_?"

"Whatever is rattling around your skull, stop it," said Tomás. "I can see the stress on you as clearly as the bright marks on your face. You've got a case of the First Year Jitters. Everyone is nervous about their first crossing, worrying over everything that could go wrong. But you clearly love your family. You talk about them all the time. They'll have you on an _ofrenda_ and you'll be back home before you know it. Just stay in this line, follow the instructions from the agents, and enjoy your time visiting your wife and daughter."

Héctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to settle his nerves. Tomás was right. Imelda was a smart, strong, and tough woman, one who was already making shoes and selling them by the time he died. She and Coco would be all right. Ernesto might even be helping them. He and Héctor were practically family, so he would probably feel obliged to make sure his wife and daughter were all right. Even if they parted on slightly rough terms, he wouldn't let that stand in the way of years of friendship. So Ernesto would almost certainly keep an eye on them.

They would be all right. His family would be all right. And Héctor would get to see them soon.

That thought warmed him and eased the sharp pain in his ribcage slightly. Everyone talked about _Día de Muertos_ , about what to expect and what it was like going back. The provided pamphlets explained further. His family wouldn't be able to see or hear him. He wouldn't be able to touch them. But Héctor would get to go home. He would get to see his family again, even if only for one night. It wasn't much… It was barely anything compared to being with them. But the thought of seeing his girls again helped get him through the last several months.

"Feeling calmer now, _mi amigo_?" asked Tomás. "Think you can handle this?"

" _Sí_ ," he said, nodding slightly. "I can do this."

Pulling out a thin stone rectangle card, made of black obsidian with the carved skull design, Tomás said, "Then I better head to the other line. Abril is saving me a spot or else we'd be here half the night. The older method is a lot slower."

"Tell your wife that I hope you enjoy your visit," Héctor said with a small smile.

"I will. And make sure to come by in a few days and tell us about your girls."

Tomás wandered away, following the posted signs until Héctor lost sight of him. Héctor was left standing there, fiddling with the basket in his hands and watching the sky through the large window as the colors changed with the approaching evening.

_What color's the sky? Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor! You tell me that it's red. Ay, mi amor! Ay, mi amor!_

Héctor didn't know how much time passed before a cheer rose up from the crowds ahead of him and the line began to finally move. There were dozens of different lines all radiating out from the more central building, the Marigold Grand Central Station, but Tomás assured him that this particular line would be for those who needed to return to Santa Cecilia and the occasional signs supported that. Progress wasn't fast, but it wasn't slow either. There wasn't any pushing or shoving. Just a lot of excited chatter among the waiting skeletons.

He followed close to the people directly in front of him, watching carefully. He wanted everything to go smoothly. He didn't want a dumb mistake to slow things down and keep him from his family any longer than necessary. But even as he was eager to hurry up and get to the end of the line, his earlier worries started creeping back in.

It would be fine. It would be fine. Héctor kept repeating that to himself. Everything would be fine and he would be home soon. He would get to see his family soon. Nothing would keep him away from his beautiful wife and daughter. It would be fine.

" _Hola, Señor_ ," greeted the agent, startling Héctor as he realized that he'd reached the front of the line.

"Oh," he said, tightening his grip on the small basket. " _Hola_?"

He glanced around, taking note of the ancient stone columns next to the more recent black wrought-iron gates. There were rows of agents with tables set up, stacks of thick books piled on them. He saw people flipping through them. And ahead of him, a golden-orange glow stretched towards the horizon. Héctor couldn't drag his eyes away once he saw it.

The marigold bridge. Forming one evening out of the year, it connected the Land of the Dead to that of the living. And the magic in the _cempazúchitl_ petals would allow them to cross over and see their living family.

As long as his family remembered him and placed one of his two _fotos_ on the _ofrenda_ , then he would get to go home.

"First year?" asked the agent.

Nodding, Héctor said, " _Sí_. Is it that obvious?"

"Don't worry, _Señor_. It'll seem routine within a few years," assured the agent. "So you died in 1922?"

"1921," Héctor corrected. "Near the beginning of December."

"Do you know where your family might have an _ofrenda_ with your _foto_? If you don't, that's fine. We can check a few places. But it'll go faster if we have somewhere to start our search."

While the idea that Ernesto might have set up an _ofrenda_ wherever he ended up did briefly cross his mind, Héctor said, "Santa Cecilia. My family lives in Santa Cecilia."

"Good. That means I won't have to redirect you to a different gate," said the agent, dragging out one of the books and flipping through the pages carefully. "I can't tell you how often that happens. Let's see if we can find a copy of your _foto_."

Héctor watched as he looked through the thick book. Each page held _fotos_ , the edges glowing faintly with the same light as the bridge. He faintly recognized a few of the faces, people that he remembered seeing around Santa Cecilia over the years. But as the agent moved further and further through the pages, Héctor realized that he still didn't see his own face.

It would be fine. Even if Imelda was angry about his broken promise, she would forgive him enough to put up his _foto_ on the _ofrenda_. She would let him come home. It would be fine.

As the agent neared the end of the thick book and Héctor's anxiety reached its peak, he turned the page and one of the _fotos_ glowed far brighter than the previous ones. Héctor smiled, staring down at the images of himself, his wife, and his daughter.

Their family photograph. The one that they saved their money and dressed nicely for, a special occasion for all of them. He remembered borrowing the suit from Ernesto because he wanted to look his best. He remembered Coco getting a little fussy during the wait, too hot and tired. But she cheered up when her mamá sang quietly to her and he plucked out a simple tune on his guitar, both of them coaxing the girl out of her foul mood. He remembered that day and he remembered the two beautiful faces sharing the _foto_ with his own image.

"There you are. And what a beautiful family, _Señor_ ," said the agent cheerfully. Giving Héctor a nod, he said, "Looks like everything is in order. Make sure that you are back across the bridge by dawn and have a good visit."

The agent waved Héctor forward, letting him move past the gates. The stone underfoot eventually gave way to the bright petals that composed the bridge. He hesitated a moment at the edge, part of him unable to believe that anything made of _cempazúchitl_ petals could hold him up. But when he took a step forward, they glowed brightly and felt solid.

There was a feeling, a subtle tugging deep within. Héctor felt it as he walked forward. It wasn't quite pulling him along. Only suggesting a direction.

A path of _cempazúchitl_ petals to guide him home.

Héctor shouldn't have been surprised that the bridge brought them to the cemetery in Santa Cecilia, but it still managed to steal his breath away as he caught sight of the familiar place. Candles glowed in the approaching twilight, people gathered around graves of their loved ones with offerings and flowers. It was something that he'd seen every year for as long as he could remember, even when he had no loved one's grave to visit for himself.

He had a grave. That thought hit him suddenly. Somewhere around there, if he wanted to look for it, he would find a gravestone with his name on it. And somewhere nearby, his body rested underground. Even after he'd spent almost a year coming to terms with the fact that he was dead, that he was a skeleton, and that his neighbors would now be other skeletons and brightly colored creatures, it had still never crossed his mind that his body was left behind. Part of him was buried somewhere among the rest of the graves.

Héctor wasn't quite certain he was ready to face that directly.

But as familiar a scene as it might be, all the people gathered in the cemetery for _Día de Muertos_ , it wasn't exactly like his memories. Mixed in with the people of Santa Cecilia were the returning dead. The living didn't see the skeletons moving around them. They didn't see their dead family members. But they still left gifts for them anyway, tidying up the graves and building _ofrendas_ there to place the offerings. For one night, it didn't matter that half of them were little more than ghosts. Entire families were reunited. Alive and dead.

But what he was looking for wasn't here. The happy and reminiscing crowds of people, many of them familiar people that he'd known his entire life, were a nice distraction. It helped him remember what it felt like to be back among the living after nearly a year. But what he needed wasn't in the cemetery and he could still feel the gentle tug. So even though Héctor remembered how to get there, he let the feeling draw his feet out of the cemetery and towards the rest of Santa Cecilia.

Héctor let the path of _cempazúchitl_ petals show him the way home.

By the time he reached their street, Héctor was nearly running. He dodged the other people, living and dead. But his eyes never left his destination. He saw the house, a sign painted on the wall announcing Imelda's new business. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret over not being around to see all the changes unfold, but Héctor pushed it aside. He needed to see _them_.

"Slow down," called Oscar from somewhere in the courtyard. "You're going to trip—"

"—or mess up the _cempazúchitl_ petals," Felipe continued. "And you don't want that. Not after all your hard work fixing that path."

"Do you think Papá will like it?"

The excited question as he stepped through the gate hit hard, making Héctor stagger to a stop. That voice. That sweet and chirpy voice. He missed hearing it so much that it hurt.

The small courtyard, with their small well and a table that they'd dragged outside for the evening, hadn't changed much. It was good to know that some things remained constant in his absence. But it was the occupants who held his attention.

He spotted the twins pulling chairs into position, a few dark hairs taking up residence on their upper lips. They didn't qualify as mustaches yet, but it was a start. They also looked a little taller than the last time that he saw the pair. But as much as he cared for his brother-in-laws, Héctor's focus quickly shifted to someone else.

Dancing and spinning around her tíos, her twin braids bouncing with each movement, was his little Coco. A year older, taller, and changed in so many tiny subtle ways, but still his bright, beautiful, and wonderful daughter. Héctor dropped to his knees, gasping at the sight. She'd grown. Part of him ached at the realization. His baby girl had grown while he was gone. She would be five years old in a few months. She was growing up and he was missing it.

"Your Papá Héctor will love it," assured Oscar. "Look at how nice the path looks."

Coco smiled brightly at the answer and Héctor's regrets melted away for the moment. No matter what he'd missed before and what he would miss in the coming years, he was there _now_. He refused to squander his limited time with his family by dwelling on what couldn't be changed. That could wait. For now, he just wanted to be with his little girl.

Climbing shakily to his feet, Héctor stepped towards Coco. She looked so excited. But as he drew near, Héctor started noticing a few details that he missed before.

The hems of Coco's dress had been lowered. Repeatedly. He could see the marks where the stitches were taken out and resewn as the girl grew. But the fabric was reaching the edges and he doubted that the dress would last much longer before it started looking ragged. And he could see that someone did the same to the twins' pants, redoing the hems to keep up with their new height. He could also see patches sewn onto their clothes where the fabric had worn thin. Their clothes had been repaired past the point that most would rather replace them. Only the shoes were in perfect condition.

Héctor recognized the signs of trying to make a little money stretch as far as possible. There was rarely anything extra for orphans.

When Coco came close to him, Héctor instinctively reached out for her. But just as everyone warned, he couldn't touch the living. She passed right through him as if he wasn't even there. He felt _something_ , like how you could feel the sensation of fog even if you couldn't really touch it. But she didn't feel cold and wet as she walked through him. She was warm, the feeling passing through his bones. It felt surprising, but not bad.

But it did remind him of how disconnected he still was from his family. Even if he could see them, he wasn't alive and with them like before. He was still dead.

He couldn't touch them. He couldn't speak to them. He couldn't even hug his child. Not until death reunited them…

"Mamá?" called Coco eagerly, snapping him out of that depressing thought. "Do you think that Papá will be here soon?"

Héctor opened his mouth to assure her, regardless of the fact that no one could hear him, but another voice made him stiffen, spin around, and caused his absent heart to skip a beat.

"I'm sure that he will be," Imelda said, stepping out of the house with a plate of food. "Just remember, _míja_. We won't be able to see or hear him. So don't be upset about that."

Nodding eagerly, Coco said, "Papá's invisible, right? But he's coming to see us tonight and he'll get to see all the nice drawings I left for him on the _ofrenda_ , right?"

"That's right," she said as she placed the plate on the table.

Imelda was still breathtakingly beautiful and Héctor desperately wanted nothing more than to run over and kiss her after so long apart. But that didn't mean he missed the darker circles under her eyes, the slightly sunken-in cheeks, and the strain on her face. Taking care of their family on her own, running a business and trying to make enough money by herself, and everything else that she must have faced during the months without him had clearly taken a toll. She wasn't eating enough. She wasn't sleeping enough. She was working herself far too hard. Héctor reached towards her even though he knew he couldn't touch her.

" _Lo siento_ ," said Héctor quietly. "I know you can do this. I just wish that you didn't have to do it alone."

With her hands now free, Imelda knelt down and tugged at Coco's hair. The warm smile on her face did ease some of strain from her face.

"Why don't you ask your tíos to help straighten out your braids? I think they're starting to unravel," she suggested. "You want to look nice for your papá."

Nodding eagerly, Coco grabbed at Oscar and Felipe's hands and started pulling. Part of him wanted to follow after his daughter and his two brother-in-laws. But Héctor lingered with Imelda. She straightened the plates on the table for a moment, drawing attention to the fact that there should be more. For a special occasion and for four people, there should be more food on the table. But the loss of the money that his music brought in… That was why her face looked a little gaunter. She was eating less.

Eventually she stepped away from the table and headed into the house. Just inside the door, she paused. Héctor followed out of curiosity. But when he poked his head inside, he blinked in surprise.

It was the _ofrenda_. Just like the previous years, he saw the decorative box that Imelda's abuela left her. And he saw the flowers, candles, and food. But now their family picture had been added. And his treasured guitar, bright and shining, occupied a place next to the _foto_. It was different than years passed because some of these offerings were for _him_. The _pan de muerto_ , the small bowl of _chapulines_ that they managed to somehow get a hold of, a stack of paper that he quickly realized were drawings from Coco… All of these things were meant for him.

Because he was dead and that was what people did for the dead on _Día de Muertos_.

"We had to sell some of your things," Imelda said abruptly.

His head jerked up, glancing towards her. But she wasn't looking at him. She hadn't suddenly noticed his presence, though she was clearly speaking to him. Her voice was soft and apologetic as she stared at his _foto_.

"I didn't want to, but… the first few months were especially difficult. The business is picking up finally. But for a while, we needed to sell your belongings to keep afloat."

"It's fine, _mi amor_ ," said Héctor, not caring that she couldn't hear him. "It's just things. You didn't even need to leave me anything on the _ofrenda_. I need you to take care of yourself and our family first. I'll be fine."

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around Imelda. He couldn't hold her. Not really. But Héctor kept his arms from slipping right through her completely, enjoying the warmth of the almost-contact. It wasn't want he needed. He couldn't feel the softness of her skin, the smoothness of her hair, or the texture of her dress. All he felt was the warm mist-like sensation. It wasn't what every part of him desperately ached for. But he couldn't truly hug his wife or daughter and he wouldn't get the chance again until they passed, which he hoped wouldn't be for a long time. Pretending to hold her close like this was all he could manage until then.

And when Imelda sighed deeply and her posture seemed to relax, Héctor hoped that she could sense his presence. He hoped that she knew that he was with her and trying to hold his wife close, no matter how intangible he might be.

"I couldn't sell your guitar though," she continued. She wrapped her arms around herself, the movement passing through his limbs as if he was made of smoke, but he remained next to her. "It would have provide us with enough money to last for a while, but I couldn't bear it. I couldn't let it go, Héctor. There's too many memories. I wouldn't let _Ernesto_ take it and I won't let anyone else have it either."

The sheer venom in her voice as she mentioned his friend made Héctor stiffen. He let his arms drop and he stepped back, looking at her face questioningly. What happened? Even though Imelda and Ernesto were never the closest people, he never expected to hear that tone from her. Did… Did she blame Ernesto for what happened? Maybe he got sick during the tour, but that was bad luck. She couldn't blame Ernesto for bad luck, could she?

" _That man_ … That man was poison," she said sharply. "He wanted your guitar. Your songs. But all he left with was hopefully the beginning of a scar." She shook her head. "I still wish I could do more to make him pay for what he did, but I can at least keep them out of your murderer's hands. They belong with your family, Héctor."

Héctor staggered back at her words, cold shock washing over him. His bones shook so strongly that he could hear them rattle. He must have misheard. It had to be a mistake.

 _Murderer_.

He found himself crumbling to his knees, trying to catch his breath. It couldn't be true. It was bad luck. He was just sick, probably from something that he ate or… something that… he… drank…

Héctor remembered a final toast to their friendship, Ernesto's anger and frustration over him leaving melting away beneath a reassuring smile as he offered the glass. And he remembered Ernesto talking about how badly he looked, though Héctor didn't feel anything wrong until the train ride. But he… Ernesto said he couldn't succeed without Héctor and his songs, but surely his friend knew better than that… He wouldn't have…

Hyperventilating, shaking, and collapsing under the weight of the combined shock, horror, sorrow, and utter betrayal, Héctor could barely notice his surroundings. His mind was whirling chaotically. Too many things were adding up, making it hard to deny them. And Imelda wouldn't say such a thing unless she _knew_. How could Ernesto do that? They were best friends. They grew up together. And Ernesto… He… He actually…

And that's why he couldn't be with his family anymore. That realization caused a sob to choke out of him. Ernesto did this… He _murdered_ him… for leaving? For his songs? That's why he couldn't hold his wife or watch his baby girl grow up? That's why Héctor could do nothing to help his family now? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. How could he?

A hand settled on his shoulder, startling Héctor into jerking his head up. A skeletal woman stared down at him with a sympathetic smile. The gray in her hair suggested that she was older when she died, but that's about it. He didn't recognize the purple dots near her eyes or the stylized hummingbirds on her temples. She handed him a glass of water from the _ofrenda_.

He shakily accepted the glass from her, vaguely noticing that she'd pulled the essence from the real item. He remembered Tomás talking about that. He also noticed that Imelda had stepped away while he was distracted by… distracted by what Ernesto…

"Drink," commanded the older woman. "It will help."

Shoving down memories of Ernesto offering a drink and what he was now realizing about that night, Héctor took a slow sip. The cool water and taking a moment to just concentrate on regaining control of his breathing seemed to help ground him. He certainly wasn't _happy_ , but the worst of the shock, hurt, and sorrow began to ease enough that it no longer overwhelmed him.

Anger would come later. He knew it would bubble up soon enough.

"I managed to catch the last part that Imeldita said. I'm so sorry," said the woman. "And it is pretty clear that you had no idea, did you? I can only imagine what you're going through. It _does_ explain why you're here like this so soon, Héctor."

"It's… It's a lot to take in," he said quietly. Slowly climbing back to his feet, Héctor said, "I'm sorry. Do we know each other?"

Smiling wryly, she said, "I died about a decade ago, so we never had much of a chance to know each other properly. But I know you. I've seen you over the years. Not last year though. Imeldita wasn't in the best mood on _Día de Muertos_ because of that. But my name is Silvia and you married my granddaughter."

Héctor stared at the woman, briefly glancing at the decorative box on the _ofrenda_ before turning back towards her. She nodded and held up the carved obsidian card to prove that she was one of the older skeletons from before _fotos_. It was really her.

With the exception of her two younger brothers, Imelda's family didn't approve of him. They didn't think he was good enough for her. And to be honest, they were right because _no one_ was good enough to deserve Imelda. But from his wife's description of her beloved abuela, who passed when Imelda was still a girl, Silvia might have hated him less than the others. She probably wouldn't have forced Imelda into an ultimatum and would have certainly not cut off contact with her.

Probably.

"Imelda… told me so much about you," Héctor said awkwardly, holding onto his wrist as he searched for something to say that wouldn't lead to disaster. "You look good?"

" _Gracias_. Such a polite young man. And she was always such a bright and good girl. I'm not surprised that she found such a nice husband," said Silvia. "It is just a shame that I died before I could properly meet you. And that I wasn't there to knock some sense into my Daniel and our children." She shook her head. "What was going through their heads? I love them, but the entire family is too stubborn for their own good."

She picked up his basket from the floor and started filling it up for him. She reached into the various offerings and pulled out their essence, leaving the physical forms behind. She collected the _pan de muerto_ and divided it between both their baskets, though Héctor vaguely noticed that she was giving him more.

"I'm afraid that I can stay as long as I would like," continued Silvia conversationally, as if this entire situation was normal and casual. "I love my Imeldita, my mischievous boys, and my sweet great-granddaughter, but I have plenty of family to check on tonight. Including my thick-headed and stubborn husband and children across town." She reached over and patted his shoulder. "Enjoy this time with your family and put the rest of it out of your mind for now, Héctor. Don't give that man a moment more. Be with your wife. Be with your daughter. And at the end of the night, wait for me at Marigold Grand Central Station. You'll probably need to update your paperwork and I think we should get to know each other better. We _are_ family, after all."

Something in her friendly tone and the offer warmed him, pushing back the remaining cold shock that Imelda's earlier words caused. Picking up one of his daughter's drawings, or at least a spirit copy of it, comforted him further. It was hard, but he pushed Ernesto out of his mind. He could come apart, break down, or lash out over what his friend did later. Right now, he was with his family. They put up his _foto_ , Imelda prepared the food, and Coco made him so many drawings… because they loved and missed him.

Drawings of the house… of shoes… of cats and people and guitars… His daughter was sharing everything in her life the only way that she could. They were beautiful and wonderful things. He tucked each one into his basket carefully, treating them as if they were priceless treasures. Because they _were_.

Running feet caught his attention right before Coco ran into the room and then out the door, the energetic girl carrying something in her arms. Héctor exchanged looks with Silvia. Then, Héctor pausing only to grab the spirit copy of his guitar on impulse, the pair followed her back outside.

Night had fallen completely and the stars twinkled overhead. Imelda was already sitting at the table and Coco was whispering to her eagerly. A young gray cat sat on her lap, though its yellow eyes seemed to stare at him. Oscar and Felipe joined them not long after. The twins were wearing identical expectant expressions. Something was about to happen and Héctor was growing increasingly curious.

"Papá?" called Coco abruptly, sweeping the courtyard with her gaze as if facing a large audience. "Mamá says that you and… Mamá Silvia?" She turned briefly and Imelda gave her a confirming nod. "She says you should be here by now. And since you're here, I wanted to do something nice. I hope you really like it."

She held up the object in her arms and Héctor couldn't help smiling at the adorableness. Coco had a toy guitar, made of scrap wood, paint, and shoelaces to serve as strings. It looked like the twins' work. There was no possible way to play music with it, but she looked so serious and cute as she tried to mimic the way he used to strum his instrument.

"Remember me," sang Coco, playing her toy guitar, "though I have to say goodbye."

Pulling out his actual guitar, Héctor started playing and sang with her, "Remember me. Don't let it make you cry."

It didn't matter that only Silvia could hear the notes. Héctor sang and played accompaniment to his daughter's performance, a duet that crossed between life and death. For a moment, he could pretend that nothing had changed. He was singing with Coco, sharing her song with his girl. And as it came to an end, Héctor was beaming proudly at her.

Imelda, Oscar, Felipe, and Silvia applauded enthusiastically as Coco finished. She then hurried over and started tugging on her mamá's arms.

"Your turn," said Coco. "Your turn now."

Shaking her head slightly, Imelda said, "No, _míja_. I'll just listen to you."

"But Mamá," said Coco, her voice pleading, "you've got to sing too. Papá _loves_ it when you sing. He probably misses it." A little quieter, she added, "I miss it too."

She smiled at her daughter, but there was a sadness in her eyes. Sadness and old hurt. She reached out and cupped Coco's face gently.

"You don't have to do it," Héctor said. "I mean, she's right. I _do_ miss hearing your beautiful voice, but you don't have to sing if you don't want to."

"Perhaps one song," said Imelda slowly. Looking between the girl and her twin brothers, she asked quietly, "Any requests?"

"Whatever you want," said Oscar.

Felipe added, "Any song would be nice."

"She was always good at La Llorona," Silvia said. "I suppose I could stay for one more song before heading across town."

As Héctor nodded in agreement, Coco said, "Un Poco Loco! I like that one. It's bouncy."

Her smile a little more authentic than before, Imelda said, "I rather like that song too. Do you want to know something special about that song, _míja_? Your papá always claimed that he wrote it for me."

"I did. I wrote it for you, _mi amor_ ," he said. "I wrote it because I love you and I couldn't deny the music it put in my heart. I couldn't hold it in, so I had to write you a song. I love you so much, Imelda."

"Can I help you sing your song, Mamá?" asked Coco energetically.

Nodding, Imelda stood up and let the gray cat scramble to the ground. She scooped up the girl in her arms, handing over the toy guitar to Felipe. Coco was approaching the age that it would be harder to hold for long, but Imelda managed. And she swayed in place, dancing with their daughter. She hummed the first few notes as Héctor began to play.

"What color's the sky? Ay, _mi amor_. Ay, _mi amor_ ," Imelda sang sweetly. "You tell me that it's—"

"Red!" shouted Coco, beaming brightly as her outburst made everyone smile.

"Ay, _mi amor_! Ay, _mi amor_ ," Imelda continued with increasing energy, unaware that her husband was singing with her.

They sang the rest of the song. And then another. And yet another. Not all the songs were written by him, but Héctor could play them and did. Imelda grew bolder with each note, showing more of her normal enthusiasm and love for music. She was the rising sun, growing brighter and warmer as they continued. It didn't erase the stress and strain that he saw before, but the burdens on her didn't seem to weigh her down as much.

Even though none of them could hear the guitar music, the entire family danced and sang with varying levels of skill. Imelda danced with her daughter and each of her brothers at different points over the course of the night. She laughed and smiled with them. Sometimes they would pause to eat or to tell stories. A few times Coco would run over to the _ofrenda_ and start telling him about something interesting that had happened in the past year, the girl so excited to describe everything. And someone always seemed to be humming a tune and Coco rarely stopped dancing around.

Héctor didn't even notice when Silvia left. He was completely enthralled by what was happening, watching and listening to his family. He felt like he was a part of the celebration, no different than the rest. Héctor could almost forget that none of them could see him.

But as the hour grew late to the point that it would be better to call it early, the energy began to wane. Coco yawned and started rubbing at her eyes with increasing frequency. It was long past the point when she should be in bed and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. Some people could and did stay up for the entire length of _Día de Muertos_ , only stopping once dawn broke. But that would be too much to expect of a child who had not yet turned five. She'd tried her best though. Eventually Imelda picked up the drowsy girl.

"Let's get you in your nightgown," Imelda said. "You're asleep on your feet."

"But I'm not sleepy," mumbled Coco, rubbing her eyes and burying her head into the woman's shoulder.

Chuckling as he slung his guitar over his shoulder, Héctor said, "That sounds familiar. But I don't think your mamá believes it any more than I did."

"We'll get the plates," Oscar said. "We wouldn't—"

"—want Pepita to eat what's left," continued Felipe.

Imelda nodded before heading into the house, Héctor trailing after. He followed them into Coco's room. Once again, he couldn't stop noticing what had changed. There were new drawings on the walls, displaying her evolving art skills. The dress on her doll had faded in color from numerous washings. She loved that doll and tended to play with it all the time. And on the small bedside table…

Héctor paused, blinking in surprise. In a sturdy frame, his other _foto_ smiled brightly. The family picture was on the _ofrenda_ , but the second one was in his daughter's room. Apparently they found a way for him to be with her even when he couldn't be.

"Do you think Papá liked everything?" mumbled Coco, drawing back his attention.

Tucking the girl into bed, Imelda said, "I'm sure he loved it."

"I did, _míja_ ," he said. "But mostly I loved seeing both of you."

He sat on the edge of the bed, neither bending the mattress with his weight nor passing through it. Perhaps he was sitting on the spirit copy within? That was the only explanation that he could think of. Did that mean that someone could possibly take a whole bed back to the Land of the Dead if someone left it as an offering? How would they even move it?

As he contemplated the logistics of how he could sit on the bed at all, Imelda leaned down and kissed Coco's forehead lightly. Then she walked out, leaving Héctor with their daughter.

"Good night, Papá," mumbled the girl, staring blearily at the _foto_.

"Sleep well, my Coco. _Y que sueñes con los angelitos_ ," he said softly. "I know it isn't much… One night each year... But I'll be back as soon as I can. A year will pass before you know it." He closed his eyes and attempted to press a kiss to her cheek, feeling the warm sensation as he passed through her like a ghost. "It's only a year. I'll see you in a year."

He sat there for while, watching her and trying to memorize Coco's face. He needed these memories to hold onto until he could see her again. Héctor stayed with her until her breathing grew slow and steady. He stayed until she drifted off to sleep. Only when he was certain that she was sleeping soundly did he stand back up and slip out of the room.

The house was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Dawn was approaching, though it was still a while before it would break the horizon. He had time.

Even though he knew that it didn't matter, Héctor did his best to keep quiet as he moved through the house. He edged his way towards his destination. Silent as the grave, he sought out his old bedroom.

 _Their_ bedroom.

Imelda was already asleep in bed, the young gray cat curled up against her. Pepita, if he heard right earlier. The cat briefly opened her yellow eyes and stared at him. As if she could actually see him. He didn't know if it was a cat thing or if she was simply strange, but he felt a lot more comfortable when she closed her eyes again.

Héctor sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at his sleeping wife. He wanted nothing more than to curl up next to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. He wanted to sleep with her and then wake up to Imelda's smile, the last several months no more than a dream. He wanted to be with her again.

But that wasn't going to happen.

"I love you," Héctor said quietly. " _Lo siento_. I should have never left in the first place. I shouldn't have listened to Ernesto…"

He shook his head sharply, forcing down the wave of painful emotions again. He could give in to it later. He could deal with the betrayal, anger, sorrow, and the complete unfairness of the entire thing afterwards. Right now, Imelda was more important.

"I know that I can't do anything to help. I _wish_ I could make things easier for you. I should have found a way to hold on. Then you wouldn't be… alone," he continued. "But I didn't. I died. And I can't change that. But I have time."

Time was one thing that he had plenty of. And now he had his guitar again. With time and his guitar, there was a lot that he could do.

"I can make sure that when you and Coco join me someday, everything will be ready for you. I can't help you in life, but I'll do what I can to make what comes after a little easier. Even if you build a new life without me… Even if you find someone else someday… Everything will be waiting and ready for you when you die. I can do _that_ much for you."

Like with their daughter, Héctor leaned down. He pressed a small kiss where her forehead was, though it was as insubstantial as his other attempts to touch the living. She smiled slightly in her sleep however, almost as if she could feel the light kiss.

"I'll wait for you. I promised to love you and be with you forever. Nothing will change that, Imelda," he said, wishing that he could reach out and hold her hand. "It doesn't matter how many years it might take. It doesn't matter if you find another man eventually."

It was a lie, but one that he would force to be true. It would hurt. It would hurt to come home one year and find a new husband in his place. Even a good one who would treat his family kindly and take care of them, though that would certainly be preferable to the alternative. It would hurt to come back to find another man smiling warmly at his daughter and sharing his wife's bed.

But Héctor was dead. There was no way around that. Death had indeed parted them. He was dead and she was alive. She deserved to be with someone alive. Someone who could love her and support her. Someone who could do what Héctor no longer could. So while it mattered if she found another man, it wouldn't change anything for him.

"No matter how long it takes for you to see me again, no matter what else might happen, and no matter if your feelings might change, I will _never_ stop loving you," Héctor said softly. "You and Coco? My family? You're my entire world. I will love and miss you and our family until the end of the time."

He kissed her again. Or at least as well as he was able by passing right through her.

"I wish I could have been with you longer. I wish we could have had more time together. But…"

But he died. He couldn't hold on and he died. Because of Ernesto apparently…

Héctor pushed that thought down. He didn't want to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about it. Not now. Not yet.

He glanced towards the window, trying to judge the time. He didn't want to risk cutting things too close. There was no way for him to know how crowded the bridge might be for his return. But his eyes quickly drifted back to Imelda.

She looked so beautiful and peaceful, sleeping under the familiar quilt. He held a particularly strong memory of her repairing it years ago, sitting in the corner one evening with it draped over her pregnant belly as she worked. She was stitching while he plucked away at his guitar. She'd seemed uncomfortable and mildly anxious all day, pressing at her lower back and constantly having to move. And it grew worse the later in the day it grew. Her attempt at repairing the quilt was the stillest she'd been that entire day. But neither of them realized what was coming until the discomfort shifted towards pain, a pain that came at increasingly frequent intervals. And then they knew. By the next day, Coco officially joined the family.

Imelda was beautiful then: exhausted, soaked with sweat after a long labor, and holding their infant daughter. And she was beautiful now.

"I didn't want to leave you. I _promised_ that I wouldn't. And I don't want to leave you now," Héctor said. "But that seems to be what I keep doing, _mi amor_. That's all that I seem to do now… Leave you… _Lo siento_."

He stood up reluctantly. Making his feet move was harder. Each step seemed to weigh him down further. But he slowly edged his way out, watching his wife for as long as possible. He forced himself to walk out of the house, reclaiming the basket of offerings as he went. He kept walking, doing his best not to think about how he was leaving his family yet again.

It was only a year. A year would pass by before he even noticed. It really wasn't long at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this chapter is about twice my usual length. Which is why I had to separate it from the previous chapter or else it would be three times my usual length. Yeah, this one was long. But look on the bright side. There's only one chapter left for this story. Thanks for continuing to read and provide feedback. I appreciate it.


	10. In My Arms Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final chapter of this tale. Thanks for sticking with it, even when it turned out to be absolutely depressing. Hopefully this final chapter will live up to your expectations.

Ernesto stared down at the letter in his hand, identical to the letters he'd received almost every December for nearly forty years. They rarely managed to arrive on the precise day, the postal service not reliable enough to manage that as his pursuit of fame took him all across Mexico. But the letters always found him eventually. Whether he was touring different cities in an attempt to win over the crowds or putting on real performances after he hired a new songwriter or when he started appearing in motion pictures or even now as he faded from view in semi-retirement, the letters found him at nearly the same time of the year.

They weren't long letters. Never more than a single sentence without even a signature, though the envelopes often contained other scraps of paper. Flyers for his performances, clipped articles from magazines and newspapers, ticket stubs from his films, and so on. Each piece of memorabilia catalogued the path of his career. It could have been the work of an eager fan. But the timing told him who it was better than a signature ever could. And if there was any doubt, the words made it clear.

_It was always for nothing._

Imelda kept her word. Only the faintest whispers escaped Santa Cecilia, easily dismissed as wild and unsubstantiated rumors. Not even enough to put a blemish on his reputation. There was no focused attempt to drag him down. But she clearly followed his career. The letters sent around the anniversary of Héctor's death were proof of that. And she was reminding him that if he broke their deal, if he should use her husband's songs at any point, she would know and destroy everything that he'd built.

And he'd built a lot. Once he found a new songwriter, the first of several over the course of his career, people started to take notice of his music. Ernesto didn't become the most famous musician in the world, but he was a popular one with more records than he could count at the moment. He only served as the leading man in a couple films, but he was a supporting character in several more. He spent decades enjoying the fame, the parties, the alcohol, the women, and the adoration. Everything that he ever wanted was his and he earned them through his own merits.

And that was why Ernesto was sitting in a darkened room, nursing a drink in his hand despite his doctor's warnings about his age and his liver. It was also why he spent so much time over the years drinking so much even when tequila stirred up so many unwanted memories. He built his career on his own. Despite what he believed decades ago, he _didn't_ need Héctor's songs to succeed. Héctor was right about that. He managed.

Héctor didn't need to die.

He didn't need to murder Héctor for those songs.

Ernesto downed the rest of his glass, focusing on the burn in his throat as he blinked blearily. With every year that passed, with each new millstone of success, and with every letter sent for the anniversary of Héctor's murder, the worse that the guilt seemed to gnaw at his gut. It would be different if Héctor's songs were the reason for his success. Then he could claim that it was worth it in the end. Or if he failed, Ernesto could have blamed Imelda for a mediocre career by denying him those songs. But this… It meant that murdering his best friend was truly for nothing.

He should have found another way. He should have just let Héctor go home. There was blood on his hands. He didn't need to kill him. That thought seemed to haunt him whenever he was sober or any time that he looked in the mirror, a thin scar on his chin reminding him of widow's boot and her fury. There was no reason for his death. It was almost like Héctor's ghost hovered over him at all times.

Ernesto blinked drowsily. How much did he drink? He couldn't remember. A few? Maybe more? While the whispers about murder never gained much traction since Imelda kept her word, the years before he finally retired contained rumors of alcoholism. That he would miss rehearsals and show up for performances drunk. What did those people know? He just hated rehearsals and thought they were a waste of time. And Ernesto knew that people always wanted a scandal and would exaggerate anything. Calling it an addiction would be a little extreme. He just needed something to smother out the memories of a shot glass filled with more than tequila.

"A toast," he mumbled, letting the letter flutter to the ground before pouring another drink. "To our friendship." He raised his glass briefly, spilling some in the attempt. "I would move… Heaven and Earth for you, _mi amigo_ …"

Ernesto chuckled brokenly before muttering " _salud_ " and tossing back the burning liquid down his throat. His doctor would hate him for this, but he couldn't care less. His liver could crawl off and _die_ for all he cared. He just wanted to silence the guilt.

But it never stopped. It never went away. And there was not a single comforting lie that he could tell himself that made what happened right.

Ernesto felt himself drifting off in his armchair. And while he knew that he was no longer a young man and that his aching joints would not thank him, he let sleep claim him. Maybe a nap would help.

But as much as he wanted rest to bring a feeling of calm, when he woke up an untold amount of time later, Ernesto nearly threw a punch when he was greeted by a grinning skull.

* * *

Knocking on the door gently, Coco called, "Mamá?"

There was no answer, causing the woman to frown. It was already strange enough that her mamá wasn't up and working already. Even with her daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughters joining her in the workshop while Rosita helped watch little Berto, Imelda wasn't one to slow down with age. She was always the first to rise in the morning and the last to head to bed. Nothing could convince her to take it easy. Coco had certainly tried over the years.

But for the last few weeks, Mamá has seemed more run down than usual. She hid it well and didn't let it slow her down, but Coco knew her mamá well enough to spot the signs. Perhaps she was catching the start of a cold. Maybe Mamá was sleeping in…

…For the first time in over fifty years…

Worry squirmed around in her stomach as Coco knocked again. She couldn't hear anything. No voice calling out. No shifting mattress. No creaking floorboards. Mamá wasn't a heavy sleeper. Coco knew that she should hear some type of response.

Hesitating slightly, Coco slowly opened the door. The quiet _creak_ sent a shiver up her spine for a reason that she couldn't explain. She was no longer a child who feared the dark and nameless things. She was a mother and even a grandmother. She couldn't let a silly thing like a creaking door and a silent room unnerve her.

She eased her way across the room. Coco saw her mamá curled under her blanket, not even trying to get ready for the day. Why did it disturb her so much to finally see Mamá taking it easy when she spent so long asking Mamá not to work so hard? Why did seeing Mamá sleep in for once leave a tightness in her chest?

Reaching towards her, Coco called gently, "Mamá? It's time to wake up."

As soon as her fingers wrapped around Mamá's hand and felt the coldness, horror and grief jolted through her like lightning. Her panicked call for Julio brought her husband running and the rest of her family quickly followed. But there was nothing that they could do to ease the heartache and loss. They could only share it as they discovered the lifeless body of the family matriarch.

Only after the day of sorrowful preparations and night fell again did a small realization come to her. Only as Coco settled into bed completely exhausted, Julio's arms around her and offering what comfort he could with his steady and depending presence, did a soothing thought come to her. And that thought eased a little of the hurt.

After so many years apart, Mamá would finally get to see Papá again.

* * *

Imelda sat on the edge of the bench, staring down at her hands. She barely recognized them. How strange to realize that. She barely recognized her own hands. Pale bones without any flesh. No sagging and wrinkled skin over knobby knuckles. No visible blue veins that stood out against her complexion. No tiny scars that were faded and worn until they were barely visible. No calluses from a lifetime of crafting shoes. Only thin, pale bones.

It had been a shock when she first woke up, no longer in her familiar bedroom and her body reduced to a skeleton in a nightgown. And the only clues about what might have happened was the memory of waking up to uncomfortable pressure in her upper back like someone squeezing, struggling to catch her breath, dizziness, and nausea before everything seemed fade out of focus.

"A heart attack" suggested the polite Arrivals agent once she calmed down enough to listen. Imelda knew that she didn't admittedly react well to him at first. And the giant jaguar with wings crouched at the foot of the bed only made things worse. At least until she recognized the yellow eyes staring at her firmly, familiar eyes that once belonged to her faithful Pepita. But skeletons with colorful skulls and huge glowing creatures surrounding her in a strange place, her body as a collection of bones, was enough to scare her. And Imelda transformed fear into aggression and frustration that she unfortunately turned against the poor agent just doing his job.

She knew that she didn't react well to what happened. It might actually be a good thing that she passed during the night or else Imelda would have shown up with her boots. Trying to hit the man would only make things worse. But wearing only a nightgown and barefoot, Imelda could only lash out verbally. And she did. Viciously.

It took a while for her to calm down enough to let the agent get a word in edgewise. Especially when the large feline growled if the agent got too close. So even though she woke up in the middle of the afternoon, they didn't leave the large room filled with curtains until night fell.

The new room that she currently occupied was small with a few benches and little else. Oddly enough, the furniture appeared to have skull-like designs carved into them. Did they think that they would forget that they were skeletons if they didn't cover everything with death imagery? But the strange decorating decisions aside, Imelda could recognize waiting room when she saw one.

Pepita, now an alebrije according to the Arrivals agent, stalked off when they led her upstairs. Apparently she would wait outside of the building while they finished with her paperwork.

Imelda leaned forward, burying her head in her hands. _Ay_ , there was so much paperwork. No one ever told her about death having so much paperwork. All the questions and forms left her head spinning. And then the agent mentioned contacting her deceased family, suggesting perhaps they could locate her parents and have them come down… As if _that_ would make anything better.

She'd tried to make peace with her parents and the rest of her family. It was an uncomfortable peace while it lasted, but even the occasional offer to watch Coco for an evening when she and the twins were rushing to finish their orders or the birthday gifts of new dresses helped immensely. But even that temporary truce shattered when Coco was seven. Mamá's remark that it was past due that Imelda stop grieving and find herself a "real husband this time" sparked a fight that fractured the family once more. Imelda _refused_ to go crawling back to them.

But the idea of starting over again with nothing wasn't comforting. Especially alone. She didn't even have a home or any money for supplies… or her brothers.

It hurt. The full impact of the situation was slowly sinking in, getting past the shock and her protective shell of frustration. She was dead. She couldn't go home. She was separated from her family. Oscar. Felipe. Coco. Julio. Rosita. Elena. Franco. Victoria. Even their newest member, Berto. All of them…

What would happen to her family now? What would happen to them without her there to take care of them? Would the business flounder? Would they finish her orders on time? How long would Oscar and Felipe survive without Imelda there to rein them in, keeping their more dangerous ideas from becoming reality?

…Who would be the one to find her body?

And now she couldn't stop worrying about _that_. Would one of her granddaughters stumble upon her dead body lying in bed? Or would her sweet Coco find her mamá lifeless instead? Or perhaps it would be her brothers, so grown up and yet undeserving of that painful discovery? All those possibilities broke her heart.

How could she feel her heart break when she was a skeleton? Why did she and the others have hair, hers still in the loose braid that she wore at night to keep it from tangling? Why did any of them have eyes? Imelda latched onto these impossible questions so she didn't have to think about what she'd lost and what might be happening to her family. Trying to figure out how skeleton people could possibly work was a little less stressful. It gave her time to harden her resolve and emotions.

A polite knock, a slight _creak_ from the door opening, and the returning agent said, "Señora Imelda Rivera?"

Imelda's head raised slowly from where she'd buried her face in her hands. The Arrivals agent from before was standing with another skeleton, this one holding a bag and his clothes ruffled as if he'd thrown them on in a hurry because of the late hour. It was hard to judge age on someone without skin, but the tall and gangly figure looked rather young. Young enough to be her grandson. The vibrant and energetic markings on his face added to his youthful appearance.

Who was he? Why was he here? He didn't seem to share the same uniform as everyone else in this place.

But more distracting than his youth was the expression on his face. There was a mixture of excitement, nervousness, a little sadness, and desperate hope. And he kept shifting on his feet, as if physically fighting the urge to run towards her. Possibly out of the fear of overwhelming her on this particularly overwhelming occasion.

Then Imelda saw something familiar in his eyes just as she recognized Pepita's in her new form. She saw more love and adoration in his warm eyes than she could remember seeing anywhere else. Not since…

"Héctor…," she whispered, her hand coming up to her mouth as she stood suddenly.

The barely audible word seemed to shatter his restraint and he practically flung himself at her, dropping the bag in the process. The impact knocked Imelda back onto the bench and left him collapsing to the floor in front of her on his knees. It hurt slightly, jarring her bones, but the arms around her and the firm pressure of his ribcage pressing into her own made up for it. Imelda's own hands slid up his back until her fingers started digging into the fabric. Her head settled on his shoulder as he leaned into her, one of his hands slipping around the back of her skull and trying to somehow hold her closer.

The last time that Imelda held Héctor, nearly a _lifetime_ ago, he'd been so still and silent. Completely lifeless and empty in her arms. But as they both clung to each other desperately, that painful memory of loss didn't belong. True, she couldn't feel his heart beating even when it should have been pounding. But his ribs shifted with each fast and deep breath, as if he'd just run across Santa Cecilia to see her. Which was silly because the room wasn't even that large and why should skeletons need to breathe at all, but she was merely thankful that they did because she _needed_ him breathing, awake, and not in pain. She needed him to be all right and _not_ like her memories of his final day.

She closed her eyes and just held him tightly, listening to his breathing. When she wasn't looking, she could almost pretend that neither of them were skeletons. The illusion wasn't perfect since while Héctor always felt thin, he'd never been quite _this_ skinny. But it was close enough Imelda felt like she was in one of her dreams, the ones where her husband was still with her.

Then she heard a quiet, fast, and desperate sound. Héctor wasn't holding her in silence. He was breathing out a soft litany of apologies, declarations of how much he missed her, how much he loved her, how sorry that she was there and yet how _happy_ he was to see her, and her name simply repeated. His words barely made sense as they continued in an endless cycle. They were more an improvised song than a conversation, but one that she dearly missed. So Imelda listened to his stream of quiet words, focusing more on the sound of his voice as she held on as if he might vanish at any moment.

To be honest, his tight grip hinted at a similar fear.

But the longer that she held onto him, her fingers digging into the fabric and possibly the edges of his shoulder blades so that _no one_ could snatch her Héctor away again, the more she felt like crying. Could skeletons cry? They had eyes despite everything. And Imelda felt a tightness in her chest and her throat despite the fact that her chest was hollow and she literally _didn't have a throat_ anymore. Not to mention that she was Imelda Rivera, matriarch of the family and founder of their shoemaking business. She was the strong and sturdy one. She served as the strength of the household, supporting the rest when they needed her. She couldn't afford to spare the time and energy for tears. Not since she was a young woman, at least.

But this was _Héctor_. Holding her. Like she'd wanted him to for decades. After waking up in a strange place, realizing that she was dead and that she'd left her family so far behind, and forcing herself to control the emotions that discovery stirred up, Héctor was with her. His arms were wrapped around her, his body pressed into hers, and his voice surrounded her. She felt _safe_. Héctor was there and, for once, she didn't have to be the strong one.

And with that vulnerable thought, Imelda surrendered. She collapsed further into his embrace, practically melting into his arms while he and the bench kept her pinned in place. Her breathing hitched slightly as something akin to sobs shook her frame. No tears yet though.

"I've missed you so much, Héctor," she whispered. "I am so, so sorry."

His desperate grip on her loosened slightly, causing Imelda's to tighten. But he wasn't trying to break the embrace. Héctor only pulled back a little, prompting her to open her eyes and meet his gaze once again.

"And why should you be sorry, _mi amor_?" asked Héctor gently.

"I'm sorry I couldn't… that I… that I was powerless," she said, her voice strained by the phantom feeling of a tight throat. "I couldn't keep you from dying, even with that selfish ultimatum that I never should have made. I couldn't make it back before you were in a coma. I couldn't stop your pain. And you were hurting _so much_. I couldn't even make Ernesto pay for what he did. I let your _murderer_ live a long and happy life. I—"

"No, no, no," said Héctor quietly, pulling her back into a tight hug and interrupting her increasingly miserable stream of words. The wetness on her face now suggested that apparently skeletons _could_ cry. "It's okay, Imelda. It's okay. Don't apologize. It's okay, _mi amor_."

Burying her face into his shoulder, Imelda couldn't find anything else to say. She felt his clothes growing wet from her tears. But part of her felt better, letting him hold her and comfort her as she cried. Imelda couldn't even begin to describe how much she missed him. Héctor was a skeleton, but she could feel warmth in his embrace and she'd _missed_ that feeling.

"It wasn't your fault. No one could keep me from dying." Exhaling tiredly, Héctor said, "Ernesto apparently murdered me before I even reached the train. I was just stubborn enough to make it home first. I am sorry, though. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay with you. I _tried_. And I wish that you didn't have to watch it happen."

"I'm glad I was. It hurt, but I got to see you one last time. And you weren't alone. If I couldn't stop you from dying or from being in pain, I at least didn't want you to be alone."

"Were you alone?" he asked, his hands sliding from her shoulders along her arms. "When you died, I mean… Were you alone when it happened? Did… did it hurt, Imelda?"

Pulling back and shaking her head, Imelda said, "Not really. There was discomfort, but not much pain. And it was quick. I woke up briefly, trying to catch my breath, and then… I ended up here."

"That's good. At least you were spared _that_ much."

Slowly, Héctor climbed off the floor and joined her on the bench. His previous position couldn't be that comfortable on his knees. His arm quickly wrapped around her, still holding her close. His other hand held hers, his thumb brushing back and forth across her knuckles. The gentle touch brought a smile to her face.

The Arrivals agent must have stepped out of the room at some point. Imelda appreciated the offered privacy. She just wanted to spend time with her husband.

"I've missed you," said Imelda softly, using her free hand to brush away the remaining tears. "Every single day. I've missed you every day that you've been gone. Your face. Your voice. Your touch…" She leaned into him more. "I've missed everything about you."

"I can't tell you how much I've wanted to hold you again," he murmured. "It's been far too long. Nearly a _lifetime_ apart."

A lifetime. Imelda's eyes slid shut. She hadn't seen Héctor for decades. And in that time, she'd built a life. She created a business from the ground up. She raised their family.

She grew old. Without him.

Imelda remembered her initial impression when Héctor came in. He looked so young. As young as he did when he died. Young enough to be her grandchild rather than her husband. He was still a young man while she was an old woman.

"I hope you're not too disappointed after your long wait," said Imelda quietly.

Shifting slightly, he said, "Of course not. Why would I be?"

"Because I'm not exactly the same young _señorita_ that you first met. It's been a long time and I… I'm not…"

His hand moving to cup her face and causing her to open her eyes again, Héctor said, "And you're still as beautiful as ever, _mi amor_."

With his other hand, he pulled hers up to his mouth. It didn't make any sense; they were both skeletons and neither of them had any skin, let alone lips. But with only a slight hesitation, as if making certain that she wanted it, Héctor pressed a kiss to her hand. A tender and sweet gesture accompanied by a soft _click_ of bone-on-bone. It sent a warm and pleasant shiver up her spine. Such a small thing shouldn't affect her this strongly, but it had been _such_ a long time…

"My hair is going gray," said Imelda softly.

"Silver," he corrected, sounding a little bolder. Héctor leaned over and kissed her hairline, sending another shiver through her from how _good_ it felt. "And silver has always been prettier than gold." Another soft kiss to her stripe of lighter hair. "Silver like the moon. Silver like the stars. Leave it to you to find a way to grow more beautiful."

He shouldn't be this attractive without skin, his soft cheeks, his familiar nose, and all those other details that death robbed from him. And yet Imelda couldn't ignore the fluttering in her chest. Dead or alive, Héctor remained handsome in her eyes.

And, strangely enough, he acted like she remained beautiful to him. Even as an old woman.

"I grew old, Héctor," reminded Imelda. "Old and wrinkled. With sagging skin, crow's feet, and laugh lines. All of them. I have all the signs of being an old woman."

 _Had_. She forgot for a moment. No skin meant no wrinkles. She was a skeleton. A skeleton and dead.

"No, _mi amor_. They were signs that you _lived_." Héctor kissed the edges of her eyes. "Signs that you laughed. That you were _happy_." Another kiss, this one to the edge of her mouth. "That's what I wanted, _mi amor_. I wanted you to be happy," he said. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, as if tracing something. "And do you think I didn't know how you looked before dying? I was with you and our family every _Día de Muertos_. It was my favorite time of the year… getting to see you again."

Héctor's words and his chaste kisses left her feeling almost uncomfortably warm. It was ridiculous. She thought her passions had cooled with age. She was a great-grandmother by now. And she hadn't been near a man since his death. She thought that she was past those feelings. But Imelda was discovering they were only hibernating, waiting for her husband to rekindle those embers.

"You… You never remarried," he said quietly, still cupping her cheekbone. "I thought you would. There were other men in Santa Cecilia. Good ones."

Reaching for his face, Imelda whispered, "None of them were _you_."

She pressed against him again, but this time pulling Héctor into a deep kiss. It took a moment for him to respond and Imelda didn't immediately know how to do this without proper lips or a tongue. She even started to pull away, to give him a chance to break this off. But he returned the gesture when she tried to stop and they both grew more eager about the idea fairly quickly.

She pressed harder, forcing Héctor to twist on the bench and lean back. Her arms snaked around him, her fingers tightening into the fabric again and even digging between his ribs on his back. Héctor, forced to support both of their weight with one elbow, buried his free hand in her increasingly-loose braid. She felt his fingers moving slightly along her scalp. Or where her scalp used to be. She let one hand drift up to return the gesture in his own messy hair.

His mouth on hers, his body held in her arms, his fingers in her hair… She'd missed this. She _needed_ this. The warmth that seemed to burn her seemed to spread. Imelda hadn't realized how much she needed this feeling. The kiss, with all the passion and energy of a pair of newly-weds behind it rather than something more restrained and appropriate for a grandmother, seemed to grow more enthusiastic with each passing moment.

The occasional _click_ of teeth or bones should have been distracting, so different from how it felt and sounded in life. And their bodies were completely foreign, smooth and hard without the soft curves of warm flesh. And it had been decades since she did anything resembling this. Imelda was surprised that she even remembered. But some things could never be truly forgotten. And with the feelings of _desire_ and _want_ and _need_ burning through her, Imelda's mouth and hands rediscovered the familiar motions. She wanted this. She wanted _Héctor_.

But though she felt like a young _señorita_ as she leaned over him, nearly pressing him into the bench below with their shared kiss, it couldn't continue. No matter how much she desperately wanted her husband, an impulse stronger than her worries about being dead or what it would mean for her family, Imelda knew that they needed to stop.

Forcing herself to pull away and break off the kiss, she leaned back and said in a ragged voice, "We can't. _Lo siento_ "

"Right… Right…" His voice rougher and deeper than before and breathing hard, Héctor pushed himself upright and gave a small nod. "I should have known. It's been a long time. It's fine. You… you don't…"

"I don't think the people who work here will leave us alone in this room long enough for what was about to happen," she said, smiling coyly at him.

Héctor stiffened, blinking in surprise as the meaning of words sank in. It was always fun when she could throw her spontaneous and creative husband completely for a loop.

Honestly, Imelda was still uncertain what they could and couldn't do as skeletons. But there didn't seem to be much logic in it. And she couldn't deny the heat ignited in her by his presence. She knew exactly what she was feeling and what she wanted to do now that her husband was within reach again. So she was hopeful about their limits. And Imelda would be perfectly happy to find out their capabilities on that front together. She just wanted to be with him as husband and wife once more, no matter what forms that might take.

It had been a long time. Too long. And the passion and desire that slumbered for decades was wide awake once again.

"There's… there's a house," Héctor said, ducking his head with a slight smile. "For you. For our family. I've had time to prepare. There's a house with room to expand over time. If you want, I have enough to take care of you if you want to rest after a long life of hard work. An artist who wanted to try out performance art in the afterlife seems fond of my music, so you don't have to work if you don't want. But if you don't want to be idle, there's also a workshop attached with as many tools as I could gather over the years and we can get whatever I missed. It may not be your old workshop, but you should be able to make shoes if you like."

He brushed his fingers across her face, tracing along what she suspected was _her_ colorful facial markings. She would have to find a mirror eventually.

"But you're probably more interested in seeing the bedroom." Freezing as he realized what he'd said, Héctor corrected, "I mean, it's late and you've had a long day. You must be tired. I should take you home and get you in bed. I mean…"

Despite her earlier tears, Imelda couldn't help chuckling at his reaction. Apparently skeletons couldn't blush. If they could, she knew that Héctor's cheeks would be bright red as he buried his face in his hands with a groan. The awkwardness from the long separation was clearly a mutual thing to an extent. But that was fine. He was always so attractive when flustered.

Pulling his hands away, Imelda said, "I know what you mean, Héctor. And _gracias_."

"I… I brought you some clothes to wear," he said, gesturing at the bag he'd dropped by the door. "And some shoes. Not as good as yours, but you won't be barefoot for the trip.

Right. She was wearing only a nightgown. A change of clothes was certainly appreciated. She didn't know how far they were going.

Héctor stood up from the bench and reached out a hand to her. Imelda smiled and took it. Once he pulled her to her feet, he retrieved the nearly-forgotten bag of clothes and offered it to her.

"We'll need to bring Pepita with us when we leave," she said, pulling out a simple purple dress from the bag. He remembered her favorite color even after so long. "She's supposed to be waiting outside."

"Your cat ended up as an alebrije?" asked Héctor, looking like he was trying to decide if he should look away or not as she changed. "Why did they have the little thing wait outside?"

* * *

Horrifying visions of her family suffering while something wrenched her away from them, leaving her helpless as everyone she loved needed help, filled her mind and sent her sobbing back to awareness. Awakening on her side and shaking from the nightmare still clinging to her, Imelda couldn't see much in the darkened room. Nothing she recognized at least. And the nightmare made her strange surroundings worse.

This was wrong. Everything was absolutely _wrong_. The room was wrong. The feeling of being separated from her family, unable to hold her daughter or granddaughters or great-grandson, was wrong. Her _body_ was wrong. She couldn't stop shaking from choking sobs, unable to push back the horror from the nightmare. This was—

An arm slipped around her fingers, intertwining with hers while pulling her spine flush with his sternum. Imelda briefly stiffened before relaxing into his hold. Recent memory worked past the lingering nightmare of loss and separation.

Héctor.

She was with Héctor. Maybe the others were out of reach, but her husband was with her once again.

A soft tune wove around her, Héctor humming in his half-asleep state. Trying to instinctively comfort and sooth her even before truly waking up, so similar to how he would rock Coco in the middle of the night. She'd missed that sound. Imelda smiled as her fingers tightened around his.

Many things might seem wrong now, but not this. Lying with her husband again… Kissing him again… Refamiliarizing herself with his new body and her own…

Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she could make out more of the room. Thick curtains blocked out the light, though she could now make out the hints of dawn around the edges. And there was a shelf, one that she'd seen earlier. It was covered in drawings, family photographs, letters, and other small objects that she recalled leaving on the _ofrenda_ over the years. He kept them in plain view of the bed. And in the corner rested a guitar case.

It wasn't the home that she'd lived in for decades. But the room felt like _him_. This could be home with time. As long as Héctor remained at her side, waiting together for the rest of their family and keeping her from dwelling on what she'd left behind, anywhere could be home.

Still humming quietly, Héctor rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. Bone against bone shouldn't be this comfortable. There was no softness of skin. But his hand, his arm around her body, and his ribs against her back felt as nice as when they were together in life. Even the quiet _click_ as he brushed against her knuckles seemed soothing.

"Nightmare, _mi amor_?" he murmured, growing a little more awake.

Nodding, Imelda whispered, " _Sí_."

She felt him shift, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. His arms hugged her tighter.

" _Lo siento_. I remember those," he said softly. "They'll fade. I promise." He kissed her hair again. "It's all right. I'm here. It's going to be all right."

He was there. Sturdy. Dependable. Safe. Present. Real.

Imelda sank further into the mattress and pillow. His humming resumed, the sound vibrating his ribcage against her. Warm, comfortable, and with the man that she'd loved and missed for decades, she let herself drift back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus this tale comes to an end. Imelda might be a bit overwhelmed right now (since she just died), but she won't go through it alone. Our lovely couple are reunited in death and are together again. I want to thank everyone for sticking with this story and for all your lovely feedback. I enjoyed writing this story and it is nice to know that you enjoyed reading it.


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